A Long and Lonely Mile
by Sincerely Marigold
Summary: A direct descendent of Annabelle Casey is faced with an impossible dilemma when Tavington appears in the year 2017. She is given the chance to rewrite not only their tragic ending, but the fate of his friend, John Andre. Even if they can work through their differences and temptations, there will still be consequences for altering the past. Sequel to "Only Through Victory". Complete
1. A Curious Restoration

1781

William Tavington remained alone and defeated in the place where he had fallen. He couldn't talk and could scarcely move, so he watched the sky and waited for the eternal darkness of death to prevail. His fingers clung weakly to a tattered white ribbon as he remembered its previous owner and a comforting thought consumed him. The Butcher was dead, departed from this world on a cold battlefield instead of wealthy and surrounded by the countless rewards of a long and prosperous life. His alter-ego was all that remained. How could this be? That the "weaker" half of him would outlast the stealthy, powerful dragoon?

"I am nothing now," he thought, watching the clouds of smoke and debris churning above his head, "nothing but the man who loved Annabelle Casey."

He fought against the blinding pain of his wounds as he moved the ribbon to his lips. A game of sensory memory ensued as he recalled his wayward love. He could hear the stream, smell the faint fragrance of lavender and rose that was always infused in her corn silk colored hair, and lastly, feel the kiss that she had gifted him with- it should have been too innocent and precious to sexualize; but he had in the darkest corners of his mind.

Just as the sting of guilt arrived, a recognizable sound assaulted his senses. An ominous black cloud approached like a tidal wave and covered the sky. This was no ordinary raincloud or thunderhead, but a mighty ensemble of a thousand crows clothed in their obsidian capes, swarming in to strip the flesh from the newly dead. The stark contrast between this scene and the memory of his beloved was borderline poetic. The crows hollered back and forth to one another with noises that were rude and sour. In his periphery, he could see their tactless, clumsy dance as they hurdled over the corpses of his fallen enemies and comrades.

Annabelle's pet name to those who held her dear was "Hummingbird" and rightfully so. Restless and petite, she wove herself in and out of his daydreams with joyful elegance. The humming of cheerful melodies and spontaneous recitations always accompanied her presence.

"If anything," Tavington offered his failing conscious, "I was akin to these ghastly crows, racing towards death and condemning my hummingbird. I have earned the fate that they have in store for me."

There was some truth to this, of course. Less than a mile away, she was battling the inevitable outcome of mortal wounds as well. The only thing that either of them had to hold on to now was the mutual promise that they would be together again. But that small beacon of hope was quickly diminishing.

By some miracle, he managed to hear the shifting of hooves amidst the commotion and directed his gaze towards a passing soldier just in time to be seen. The men recognized one another and even under these circumstances, hostility could be sensed from both sides.

"Perhaps if you had waited for your command," General O'Hara gave condescending shake of his head, "you would have spared yourself such a violent end..." He dismounted and began to examine Tavington's wounds with roughness, "and myself," O'Hara continued, his mocking blue eyes narrowing as he drew his pistol, "the most unfortunate predicament. But it is only humane to deliver a wounded beast from its suffering."

As O'Hara took his aim, Tavington's grasp on Annabelle's ribbon tightened. He turned his head to the direction of the camp where she lay. Probably dead, but he didn't know for certain. Although he did long for the release of death in this moment, he quietly wished that his message was received. There was no gunfire, only blackness and yet he assumed that O'Hara had taken the initiative and ended it all for him, anyway. This theory was proven wrong, however, when Tavington found himself on the verge of consciousness. The light from a nearby lantern glowed pink from the opposite side of his closed eyes. The coolness of a cotton bedsheet touched the back of his neck. Carefully, he considered where he had been.

"There is no Annabelle in heaven," he thought as he pondered the empty silence that he had escaped from, "I may yet see her again before…"

Although he could not see her, he knew that she was there. The rustling of her nightgown, the quiet footfalls of her ivory feet, and lastly, the electrifying touch of her small form as she fell to his side was all the comfort he ever needed- and far more than he had earned during his wicked stay upon the earth.

"He promised me that he would return," he heard his Annabelle say, "now this way neither of us will have to go alone."

As the end approached, they wished for the same thing with every ounce of their failing strength. Although their lives escaped their bodies in one final breath, they believed that the tightness of their embrace would bind them together in death—but it would never be. This was the last time that William and Annabelle would be together. At least, as they were in the year of 1781…

2017

The city of Waterford, South Carolina was once quiet, small and nearly an inconspicuous dot of activity on the Santee. Although it took on an entirely different form during the 20th century, there were parts of it that remained frozen in time. Of all the historical landmarks, the Casey Schoolhouse was considered a local gem, even amidst the present day hustle and bustle. Perhaps that is because it was under the constant surveillance and care of the Casey family through the generations. But something changed in recent years when the tiny school found itself in the hands of a more progressive Casey.

Unlike her father and her father's father, Marigold Casey believed that this tiny piece of history should not be locked and boarded. It was her dream to restore it, not only to its former glory; but to see it fulfill its former purpose as well. In the end, it was the custom of inheritance that landed it in her possession and off flew the locks. This little project grew so keenly on her heart that she worked from sunrise to sunset; only sparing her evenings to teach night school at Waterford Community College—the profits from which, naturally, went into the restoration.

Though it pains me to write that Marigold's wishes for the schoolhouse remained unsatisfied, her labor was rewarded in time; if not in a different way than she'd anticipated. She was working as a substitute at the local high school when her project was completed. After insulating the building, settling on portable heating and cooling, and properly shining the floors, the schoolhouse was ready to receive. In less than one year's time, its name was changed from the "Casey Schoolhouse" to "Waterford South", or merely "South" to the students of Waterford High. In short, her once shining vision for the building was somewhat tarnished when it became the location for after school detention.

The building's interior seemed awkward and cramped to its detainees. From her place at the front of the classroom, Marigold felt just as off-axis, looking out at the cluster of hooded sweatshirts, facial piercings and impatiently tapping sneaker'd feet. Most of the students who were sent "South" were repeats and Marigold quickly learned all of their names and temperaments by heart. Many were assigned to her remedial weekend classes as well and she found that one girl in particular was always present.

Tristan Stone was not a bad student. As a matter of fact, her classwork and test scores were nothing short of remarkable. But as with many young academics who simply aren't being challenged enough, she was quick to lose respect for her teachers and the material. It is for this reason that most of the faculty was elated to learn that Marigold was able to bring out the best in the otherwise problematic young lady. For the most part.

"I think that Tristan raises a fine point," Marigold beamed as she feverishly scratched the words, _time travel_ on the ornate, legged chalkboard, "that our only tangible evidence of time travel isn't only linked to space exploration. Does anyone, other than Miss Stone, wish to contribute to this conversation?"

You could have heard a pin drop. Her weekend classes were more conversational in nature than regular detention, yes, but it always took some work to prompt these students to speak.

"Anyone at all? No?" She returned to the board and started to construct a graph. A shifting sound came from the back of the room and Marigold turned, a thick puff of chalk whirring behind her in a perfect spiral. Sure enough, the teal sleeve of Darren Baako's letterman jacket was hanging high in the air. Marigold gestured for him to speak, instantly bracing herself for his usual sarcasm or crude innuendos.

"It's because like…" the curly haired jock with chiseled features struggled, "the earth is in space, too."

Marigold shrugged and offered Darren a brief, sideways smile. She could work with this. Before she could request an expansion on his thoughts, the terrible snap of breaking wood sounded through the room. Poor Eleanor Dooley, a freshman who was on the verge of failing remedial biology, collapsed onto the floor alongside the remains of her desk.

"Man, they need to get us out of this antique shop and into a computer lab!" Darren vocalized.

Marigold rushed to her student's assistance. When Eleanor was on her feet, apparently unharmed and uninterested in the help that her teacher was offering; Marigold responded to his comment. "They are restorations and replicas, Mr. Baako, not antiques." Several utterances of "oohh, burn" could be heard as she patted a scornful Eleanor on the shoulder and crossed the room. "As far as your computer lab goes, you might want to talk to someone else as I'm more of an advocate for good old-fashioned books-"

"Computers aren't that bad! No technology, no time travel," Darren retorted.

Marigold was quietly pleased. Backtalk was annoying, yes, but she'd successfully spun it into gold on numerous occasions in the past. "Going back to Darren's earlier point… and I'd like to hear from someone other than Mr. Baako or Miss Stone this time… let's come up with some commonplace or even fantastical theories that could count as time travel." Thirty-some seconds of silence followed before Tristan raised a tentative hand. Marigold allowed her to comment, feeling somewhat defeated. "Yes, Miss Stone?"

The brown-eyed girl who had remained unmoved for most of the discussion, sprung alive. "Well," she boasted, "I don't know if you're looking for an answer that is more along the lines of a T.A.R.D.I.S. or a DeLorean-"

Marigold crossed her arms as she interrupted her thought, "-with less attitude, please..."

Unsurprisingly, the young girl proceeded without apology. "Time zones."

Another hand shot up. This one belonged to the perpetually well-dressed Bianca Tallis who had transferred from the United Kingdom earlier that year. Like Tristan, she showed potential but had trouble thriving in Waterford High's bustling atmosphere. Marigold was so excited to hear her input that she didn't even bother to write Tristan's suggestion on the board.

"I hate to be a stick in the mud," Bianca stated in an eloquent tone that could have easily melted frozen butter in the Arctic Circle, "but aren't we straying off topic? T.A.R.D.I.S. talk is splendid for after school banter, but not even the Doctor himself could help us pass our impending exams at the rate we're learning."

When criticized, Marigold would cling to optimism. This was a weakness and a strength rolled into one. On the one hand, she managed to achieve transcendence; on the other, she would freely repeat her mistakes until they eventually landed her in real trouble. But a bright smile found its way to the cheerful little teacher's lips as she proceeded with a rant that her students knew by heart:

"How do we learn? Anybody?" Silence. "True, we can read the material over and over until we know it by heart. Or, more realistically, we can head out to Youtube or Wikipedia and cut some corners to a solid C+. But how do we really, truly achieve a firm grasp on the subject at hand?" She clasped her hands, taking on an almost saint-like stance at the front of the room. "We discuss it. We draw it out and ask ourselves, 'what words could I use to teach this material- to spread my newfound knowledge?', we hold debates and listen to one another's various, invaluable interpretations. We… discuss it."

The sound of Tristan clearing her throat severed Marigold from her reverie. The young girl pointed her pen towards the nearby clock. The meeting was due to end in three minutes. With a sigh, Marigold leaned against her desk. The weight of her petite figure was just great enough to cause the wood to splinter and for the second time that day, a desk met its noisy demise. The class, which had felt too badly for Eleanor earlier to respond in such a way, erupted with laughter. Marigold sprung to her feet, checked herself for any injuries and joined in the laughter as well.

"Class dismissed!" She chimed with an overtly theatrical gesture before returning to the ground to save her books from a spilt thermos of tepid Devonshire tea. If she was embarrassed (and she secretly was), the blush on her cheeks went unnoticed by the students as they raced towards the door. Once emptied, the room was silent and Marigold continued to re-organize the space. Several minutes passed before she noticed that she was not alone.

"Miss Casey?" Tristan approached her, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

Marigold looked up from her work, concealing her frustration with a smile. "Yes, ma'am?"

"It's starting to get dark out early and I was wondering if I could wait here for my ride to come?" The otherwise boisterous girl's tone was shocking. Once Marigold nodded, she continued her explanation. "I don't know if you've ever noticed, but the woods behind the building are…"

"Scary beyond all reason?" Marigold confirmed, shifting around the contents of her tote bag. "I've noticed. They're very old woods. They have a lot of history. And of course, the pranksters from Waterford High don't help. That's probably what you meant…"

Tristan shook her head. "No, I agree with the first part. They have a strange energy about them. Just the other day, I was sitting on the stump outside and I swear that I saw-" white lines of brightness from her parents' approaching car interrupted her thought. "Whatever. I'll see you Tuesday."

Not another word was spoken between the strange pair. After Tristan left, Marigold prepared to lock up. She threw a knit cardigan over the top of her brown, vintage dress, tucked her mess of golden waves under an emerald green scarf and hoisted her large bag of books over her shoulder. Although the autumn air stung her face, the sky remained just bright enough to promise a comfortable walk home- despite those "scary beyond all reason" woods nearby. To her surprise, she spotted Tristan no more than ten feet away with her back turned to the schoolhouse.

"False alarm?" Marigold asked, twisting the key and heading onto the lawn. Tristan remained as quiet and still as a statue. "Miss Stone?" She turned her attention to what her student was looking at. A dark-haired man in a loose, white shirt, dark pants and shiny black boots was sitting on the stump of what was once a mighty apple tree.

Tristan turned, "He says he's been waiting for you."

As Marigold approached the man, she saw that his shirt was stained with bright red blood. Although he was surrounded by shadows, his eyes were bright, blue and unaffected by the darkness.

"Annabelle?" He rose and took a step towards her. She should have been scared, but it seemed as though he had claimed all the shock and terror as his own. "Thank goodness I've found you!" His voice was timid and fearful. "The most peculiar thing has happened…"

 **Potentially Helpful Author's Note: So, yes. After milling over the decision and discarding countless outlines, I've finally created a tangible structure for the sequel to "Only Through Victory". On top of taking a science fiction-based English course, writing a lengthy research paper on time travel (don't pity me, it's an amazingly fun project) and reading some of the incredible time travel fics that other Tavington fans have penned on here and on Wattpad, this seemed like the way to go. In addition, I recently obtained a copy of "The Green Dragoon" by Robert D. Bass and it really inspired me to explore "Tavington's" previous life and the possibility for an alternate ending to his story (don't worry, that was too vague to be a spoiler). This story will end up crossing some channels with my latest and greatest obsession, "Turn: Washington's Spies", but I'm still unsure if they will be strong enough for this to count as a "crossover". Updates may be sluggish, but I will be on intersession throughout the month of August. Reviews make me happy!**


	2. Of Collies and Sugar Water

Now, it has been said that frightening circumstances reveal our true characters. If you subscribe to this theory, the simple fact that Marigold's instinct as a teacher was the first to kick in is likely to tell you a lot about her. After cutting between Tristan and the man, whoever he was; Marigold instructed her student to leave.

"Tristan," she said coolly, although she remained entranced-nearly drowning in the endless blue eyes of the wounded man, "I want you to take my keys, lock yourself in my office and call downtown for help. Just please don't ask for Jake. I will explain everything to your parents when they arrive. Is that clear?" Silence. An ironic surprise. Her otherwise talkative students never spoke when she needed them to. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Miss Casey."

She listened to her leave, silently ordering the trembling stranger to not watch where her student had disappeared to.

"I promise you, Madame," he remained still as a statue, "I mean you no harm. Neither of you."

Marigold nodded, but remained stern. "Yes, well. I am a teacher first when my students are under my watch," she moved, still holding his gaze, "now that I know she is out of harm's way, I can attend to _your_ needs. Is the blood on your shirt your own?"

If he looked frightened and defeated before, Marigold's tone had only worsened his discomfort. In truth, she didn't dislike him. Even when she was stern with her students, she did so on a platform of cheerfulness that inevitably shined through. He merely put her on edge and her lack of tact was the result. Before she could rephrase, he responded.

"Either mine or yours."

As you can imagine, this comment did more harm than good. She flushed, stepped backwards and considered yelling for help. But things didn't add up. If it was a threat, it was a very strange threat. "Tristan said that you asked for me, why?"

"Because you're Annabelle Casey." The man said simply. Like before, the name was spoken with tenderness and care as though he was reciting a five-syllable sonnet written long ago by an esteemed poet.

Marigold crossed her arms. This conversation was getting all the more peculiar by the minute. Because her mind had been racing to piece everything together since from the moment she stepped out of the schoolhouse, it had only just registered that the man was English—just like her previous husband. She never would have admitted it because it was a dreadful generalization, but this only fueled her hostility. "If you're going to stalk someone, Sir, you should at least get their name right."

"Are you not Miss Casey?" He interjected, stepping closer.

"I am Miss Casey. Miss Marigold Casey. I have been all of my life save for a miserable three-month blip back in 2015 in which I was Marigold Anderson, but we don't discuss that. There hasn't been an Annabelle in my family since 1770-something…"

"1781." The man confirmed with a smile. "You see, Miss Casey, 1781 is when I last saw her. She always spun the most intricate stories, but never of the year… 2015. Or with such a masterfully designed set. Might I ask… where did you ever find the time and funds?"

Marigold threw her head back and laughed at this. "Okay, who set you up for this? Baako, I bet. They're hiding in the woods, aren't they?" For the first time during this encounter, she turned her back and walked towards the edge of the woods. "A plague! A plague on ALL your houses! What kind of plague, you might ask!? Locusts and frogs? No, they would be far too cheery! Smallpox would be a cakewalk compared to what I have in store for you! Give up? Try the plague of SUMMER SCHOOL! Perhaps with a mild case of cholera on the side. And it won't even be with someone as amazingly cool as me, I'll make sure that you are all placed with Miss Greene or Mr. Rosen- oooh, or Mrs. Travers who will have you polishing all of the desks in vacant classrooms with shaving cream-" she turned back to the clearly stunned "prankster", "that stopped being fun back in the third grade, right? I suppose the mild case of cholera would even things out, don't you think?"

Her rant was extremely confusing and yet, he couldn't stop smiling. "This woman _is_ Annabelle," he reassured himself, "from the musicality in her laughter to the faintest skip in her walk to the madness in those spellbinding green eyes. Even the most artful player on the world's grandest stage would fail miserably upon trying to impersonate her."

A brilliant flash of red and blue followed by a loud siren and the slamming of a car door ruined this "moment", whatever it was. A lanky thirty-something officer with a buzzed haircut and a partial goatee raced across the lawn.

"Hey, jackass!" He yelled in the thickest Southern accent imaginable. After removing a handgun from its holster, he took aim. "I hear you're giving my sister trouble! Bad choice. Bad choice! Hands up!"

"Damn, I said 'no Jake'," Marigold mumbled, "Jake, there's really no trouble here. He's just a little bit disoriented. We were having a conversation…"

"How many times do we have to tell you, Mare, you can't talk your way out of everything. Now, Fella, you have about ten seconds to give me your name, explain the blood, your sissy-ass man-blouse, and tell me why on God's green earth you are harassing my sweet, baby sister. Capisce?"

"Colonel William Tavington," he seemed to recite, the mere utterance of his name caused his posture to change slightly, "as for the rest, I'm afraid I will have to disappoint-"

"Tavington?" Marigold swatted Jake's firearm away as if it were nothing more than an annoying fly. Something had clicked inside her mind; this was the turning point. She had to be clever and this _Tavington_ character had to follow her lead. "My God, I actually _do_ know him." Their eyes locked. She prayed that he could read her thoughts; that he would follow along with the fabrication that she was about to orchestrate. "You're a friend of Henry's, aren't you?"

What happened next was truly miraculous. This pair of perfect strangers shared something that lovers after decades or twins after lifetimes together experienced only if they were truly lucky. They spoke to one another in silence with perfect clarity.

The words- nay "lines" that she fed him were delivered with perfection. "That is correct. Henry is my colleague and I wish to retrieve a book for him. As for the blood and the attire, surely you are familiar with the _Shakespeare in the Park_ event? If you are interested, I would be happy to gift you with complimentary tickets." He arched his eyebrow at Marigold and she chuckled. Perhaps the last line was a bit of a stretch…

"So, you're a Colonel-actor-historian thing?" Jake's forehead creased. "You'll go away after she gives you a… book?" They both nodded. "And you're okay with this, Mare?"

"I've actually been meaning to get rid of Henry's things… if anything, it will help me out." Marigold shrugged.

After a tense moment of silence, Jake pocketed his weapon and pulled out his keys. "Well, I'd be a bad cop and an even worse brother if I didn't offer you both a ride to Mare's…"

Marigold remembered that Tristan was still waiting for her parents to arrive and was about to use that excuse when a silver sedan appeared causing the poor Colonel to fall to the ground in a panic.

"What the devil!?" He cried in despair.

Jake shook his head, not in the mood for any theatrics. He tipped his hat to Tristan as she threw Marigold her keys and climbed into the car. Then, after pulling her traumatized new "friend" to his feet, Marigold led Tavington to the street and coaxed him into the back seat. She saw that he was trembling again and honestly, felt terribly for him.

"What do you call this contraption?" He asked as Jake turned on his blinker and set the car in motion.

"What was that stupid movie with Hugh Jackman that you used to make us watch every time you came home from college, Mare?" Clearly, Jake had no desire to play along.

"It wasn't stupid, it was adorable." Marigold patted Tavington's knee in hopes of settling him down. "And it's only my favorite movie on the planet. Talking about being a bad brother…"

"A carriage without horses." Tavington mumbled. "A carriage without horses! Ah! This is truly inspired!"

"Kate and Leopold." Jake thought aloud. "That's what this clown is trying to be like. Don't you think? See, that's why I don't trust him. He waits for you outside of your place of employment and starts reenacting your favorite movie… plus, he's a friend of that douchelord Anderson. I should feed him to a fire ant colony-"

"Did I really leave the bathroom light on again?" Marigold interrupted as they pulled onto her street. She gathered her things and placed her hand on the door, more than ready to escape the confines of Jake's car. "Thank you for this weird, unnecessary ride home."

"You don't want me to take Leopold back to Meg Ryan's house after-"

"Jake, nobody's laughing. And no, I am having Colonel Tavington over for tea this evening and you are officially not invited."

They stepped onto the road, but Jake refused to move. He rolled his window down, causing Tavington to jump a mile high. "Hey buddy," he gestured for him to move closer, meanwhile Marigold hunted for her keys, "I'm the nice twin. Jack works for the government. Don't think we aren't watching your every move. Oh, and by the way, she has a big dog. Like… really big. Cheerio!"

Once Jake was out of the picture, they headed up the stony pathway to a humble yellow bungalow with white shutters. As if on cue, a large collie dog stuck its pointed snout to a window and bellowed a mighty bark into the street. Marigold was the first to reach the door, but instead of unlocking it, she turned sharply on her heel. This caused the already jumpy Tavington to step backwards into a low hanging hummingbird feeder. Marigold suppressed a laugh as the bright red liquid spilled onto his already soiled shirt.

"Okay, buddy," she began, "here's how this is going to work. My hand is on the doorknob. If you think my brother is protective, just wait until you meet Moxie. Plus, you are covered with sugar water which is entirely your fault… I need to know who you are. And what that was earlier. Right now."

"You are not obligated to accept the truth that I have offered you, Miss Casey. But I haven't lied to you. I never will."

Marigold narrowed her eyes. "Can I show you something?" He hardly moved, but his expression read "yes".

Without looking back, she squeezed through her door and past Moxie (who was barking frantically at this point). By the time she reached her bookcase, her heart was pounding loudly in her ears. All evening, she had been piecing this puzzle together. Who was he? Why was he so familiar- and unfamiliar all at once? Her fingers bounced across the bumpy terrain of book spines until they reached the title she sought- Victory and the Green Dragoon: The Biography of William Tavington. As the portrait on the cover came into view, her heartrate quickened. Posing proudly beside a chestnut mount in a handsome red coat was the same man that she had spoken to not moments ago.

Her mind continued to race as she headed back to the front door- fighting helplessly in favor of logic. Before heading back out, she flipped through the pages and marked the one that her ex-husband had found for her years ago. She would use this as a starting point and finish by showing him the cover. If he truly was who he claimed to be, this would be the gentlest route for her to take.

"I am Annabelle Casey's descendent," she shut the door and leaned against it, "but I never saw any pictures of her until Henry showed me this book. It was frightening… like looking in a mirror. Do you know why this is? Or better yet, why a book about… you… would contain this information?"

He examined the book, causing Marigold to hold it tighter. "My Annabelle was from humble origins. I was one of the few people to ever draw her. If not, the only one. Of which drawing do you speak?"

She shook her head, "List them."

"Well… in one, she is disguised as a boy and riding a big black horse. In another, she is sitting at a table and writing. There were several rough sketches of her looking out windows and braiding her hair. Then in the last one, she is wearing a ruffled gown and holding a hummingbird in the palm of her hand."

Marigold opened the book as nonchalantly as she could and presented him with it. He smoothed his hand over the scanned image of the last drawing that he had listed.

"This truly is the most unusual dream…" his bright eyes bounced back to Marigold who was beyond pensive. "And even if this is no more than a dream, you still don't believe it. Why?"

She picked up the fallen hummingbird feeder from earlier and twisted several of its loosened pieces back into place. "Because if you truly knew and loved Annabelle Casey… if you drew that picture and are the man in the portrait on the cover of that book, that also means that you committed the brutal murders that have been listed therein. Your story is terribly convincing from all angles and your resemblance to him is… uncanny. But-"

"I'm terribly sorry for earlier when I broke your…?" He gestured to the feeder.

"It's becoming too cold for them, anyway. You might have even saved a few when you broke it. But that's not the point, Sir." A blast of icy wind traveled down the road and across the porch. "What bothers me most is this- some historians, Henry included, deciphered fragments of letters which led them to believe that Colonel Tavignton murdered Annabelle Casey's sisters in front of her. Surely, I realize that this wasn't his worst crime, but it strikes a personal note for me if that makes sense. If Solomon, her father, hadn't remarried after Annabelle's mysterious death, I wouldn't be standing here today."

He turned his attention to the book once more- sifting through the pages and silently recalling the aches and pains caused by standing still all day when that "dreadful" portrait was painted before he journeyed to the colonies. "These historians that you speak of make pretty mosaics from broken pieces… but they will never shine as brightly or be as complete as the glass was before it was shattered." Then, he attempted to return the book to Marigold. "These pages are nothing more than gossip to me. If the truth is what you wish to hear, why not ask for it from the original source?"

The breeze appeared a second time; except now it was even colder than before. Marigold tried her best to conceal her reaction to the cold, but it didn't work.

"That's right, I offered you tea." She thought aloud as she turned to face the door. Moxie, who had been eavesdropping in the kitchen the whole time, started to bark excitedly. "Her bark may be worse than her bite, but she's a better judge of character than I am."

He didn't know how to react to this. Who could? "A cup of tea would be lovely, Miss Casey."

"Are you a dog person?" Clearly, she was stalling. After all, smart women typically don't allow perfect strangers (let alone, potential murderers) into their homes. "Because you strike me as more of a cat person…"

There it was, that charming smile again. "I am a horse person, Miss Casey." For now, this would have to do.

As the door swung open, Moxie came bulleting around the corner. Her claws clattered rhythmically against the hardwood floor. Marigold smiled at the friendly-faced collie and, to Tavington's relief, indicated that all was well with a cheerful tone before she slid towards him.

"That's right! I brought you a friend! You go ahead and give him a good sniffin' while I make us some tea." There were more licks than sniffs, unfortunately. In the discomfort of the moment, Marigold had forgotten about the hummingbird food that had seeped into his clothing. "Oh, yes. Thankfully Henry left some clothes behind when he… dashed… you look about his size. What's your favorite color?"

Tavington was far too busy shooing Moxie off of his boots to respond. So with a shrug, Marigold left them in her living room and returned not a moment later with a pair of black jeans, a blue flannel and a white t-shirt. In secret, she decided that the blue would accentuate his eyes, but that's unimportant.

"Here. You can use the powder room to change. It's over there by the piano. Is chamomile alright?"

At this point, Moxie was attempting to eat the edge of Tavinton's pantleg. Marigold reached out and grabbed her by the collar. "Backyard. Now." Obediently, the collie stuck her tail between her legs and began a slow, shameful walk towards the large "doggie door" across the room.

"Sorry. She normally doesn't eat people's clothes. It was the sugar water from the feeder…"

He smiled and gave Marigold a tiny bow, "I'll gladly endure all of the hounds of hell if it means that I can have tea with you at the end, Miss Casey."

After awkwardly exchanging grins, he headed towards the powder room to change. But the small piano that Marigold had mentioned earlier caught his attention.

"Are you a songbird, Miss Casey?" He asked, glancing at the sheet music on the stand. It was for a song that he did not know, "Goodnight my Someone" from a show titled "The Music Man".

"I'm more of a hummingbird these days." Marigold replied, filling a whistling tea kettle with water from the kitchen sink.

Naturally, this comment would have made his heart leap with delight, but a highly accurate "painting" on the wall above the piano prevented this. It was of Marigold and the man she had called "Henry" in front of a small, white chapel on their wedding day. He knew this man's face and had seen it a hundred times before. He knew by now from what little information Jake and Marigold had provided, that the man in this "painting" had disappeared without a trace. Perhaps there was something more to this "strange dream" that he had fallen into than previously suspected.

The pain of this man's loss was apparently still new in Marigold's heart. Why else would she hold on to his clothing and books? What she did not know, however, was that Tavington was dealing with the loss of this same man- if not, under different circumstances. A little over a year ago, his only friend in the colonies was wrongfully executed. Learning that he would never see his friend again and that he was unable to help, ate away at him for many months. The image was haunting, but he could not look away.

"Good God," he whispered to himself, "it's John Andre."

 **Author's Note: For fans of "Turn", yes, I am treading dangerously close to "crossover" territory. I nearly spit my drink across the room when I read in Bass' "The Green Dragoon" that Andre and Tarleton were close friends. Since I'm extracting inspiration from history books as well, these are muddy waters. I'll make my decision as I pen the following chapters. As always, thank you for your reads and your lovely reviews. Like "Victory", I'm having too much fun with this fic; stories with Tavington are just so addictive to write!**


	3. What's the Word, Hummingbird?

The water had nearly reached a boil when Tavington emerged from the powder room. They were both concerned that he would have trouble finding his way into the unfamiliar garments and although it was a struggle, he'd managed beautifully. Henry rarely wore the flannel in question, so it wasn't nearly as awkward seeing it on another man than one might expect. As a matter of fact, Marigold deeply approved of the way Tavington's long, dark hair looked against the blue checks and teal lines. She stole a glance from around the corner and nearly jumped out of her skin when the kettle whistled. He did as well and this seemed to even out the tally marks of awkward moments between the pair.

"I hope honey is alright with you," Marigold called from the kitchen, "most of my visitors prefer sugar, but I've never liked the taste of it in my chamomile."

Tavington smiled, still acclimating himself to her eclectically decorated living room. "However you take your tea will do, Miss Casey."

She entered moments later with two saucers and he jumped to assist her. It seemed annoying at first, but the gentlemanliness of this gesture won her over in the end. Then, they sat in two adjacent armchairs by the fireplace. Moxie must have heard them because the tentative pitter patter of her feet grew louder from the outside. The tip of her black nose emerging from underneath the doggie door followed moments later.

"You can come in now, Mox. Just no jumping or biting." Marigold called as she casually sipped at her cup. Moxie entered happily, rolled up by Tavington's feet and started licking his left boot. "Sorry about her."

"It doesn't bother me in the slightest. They're probably still a bit sugary." He attempted to lift his foot and the crackling of the dried sugar water on the sole against the floor confirmed this. "What were you trying to attract with that thing, anyway? Bees? Hornets?"

Marigold laughed, "Hummingbirds, of course!"

He'd contemplated his tea before taking a sip, but this commanded every bit of his attention. He placed the cup down on the saucer and turned quickly, his blue eyes blazing. Marigold's laughter grew harder. "Why would you want to attract hummingbirds?" He saw that she was beginning to flush and instantly regretted this question.

"So, I had this roommate in college," the expression on her face was a fusion of embarrassment and something far more tender; but it was impossible to decipher, "and she was really into meditation, tarot cards, patchouli oil, auras yeah- a typical prototype when you consider I went to college in Portland. She looked me square in the face one day and told me that I was a hummingbird in a previous life. You'll probably lose all respect for me after I say this and believe me, I initially suspected there was something in the dorm water that my Brita hadn't caught… but I think she was right. When I was younger- and Jake can actually vouch for me; they used to land on my shoulders and even... even let me hold them. Like in that drawing, you know? But then as I got older, they stopped. I'd still see them in the garden all the time, but they refused to come that close to me again. It's almost like they lost interest… yeah, you think I'm crazy."

"On the contrary, that is probably one of the least absurd things we've discussed this evening." Tavington directed his attention to his tea, it was finally cool enough to take a sip. He strongly approved, not only of her perfect rationing of wildflower honey, but of the tiniest splash of milk that had also made its way into to the chamomile, "You must have a very refined palette. I never knew colonials to make even halfway decent cups of tea…"

"While we're on the subject of crazy," Marigold imposed, clearly unaccustomed to being complimented (or called a "colonial" for that matter), "I was wondering if you could tell me- and I won't hold it against you if you refuse- but what is the last thing you remember from 1781?" Her words sounded absurd as they left her mouth, but she genuinely was curious.

"Guilt. Terrible guilt. When you jumped in front of that bullet, I… I'm sorry. I simply can't continue. The memory of it is still too real for me."

"Annabelle jumped in front of a bullet?" Marigold pressed, "They found bits of a sonnet that she wrote about committing suicide. Everyone just assumed that she ended it all after you were killed in battle." She paused to assess his words and her own. "The blood on your shirt… was either mine or yours. You were with her and then you were with me. And then we had that moment where we read one another's thoughts." They were mutually stunned. She was beginning to play along with his story more and more. Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, she was also starting to believe him. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Exactly what we're doing right now." He took another sip of tea and grinned with approval, yet again. "You know, one thing that I never fully understood or even appreciated about Annabelle during the brief time that we knew one another, was her strong affinity for words. They were her weapon of choice. I spent years in the army mastering every element of combat imaginable and somehow overlooked the power of not only persuasion, but conversation."

Marigold's green eyes narrowed. "I'm sensing guilt again." She couldn't have been more correct. In his previous life, Tavington was a slave to his obsession with glory. Although Annabelle attempted to drive a wedge between man and motivation, his eagerness to impress resulted in his demise. Now, he was enslaved by guilt. A vicious cycle to say the least.

Bear in mind, Dear Reader, without this guilt and William Tavington's relentless desire to alleviate it, there would be no story…

Their conversation inevitably spilled into the tragedy of their failed courtships. During this time, Tavington refused to admit to his crimes. This barely passed as not lying, but he could talk about Annabelle for hours and his evident affection for her held Marigold's interest- for the time being.

After a painful, albeit vague, recollection of their final moments together, Marigold realized what the tacit rules of conversation were beginning to suggest… she would have to tell him about Henry in exchange for his suffering.

"It seems to me all love stories must end in tragedy," she sat down and made herself comfortable after returning with what was their forth serving of tea, "someone must lose someone in the end. Still, I find myself terribly envious of the simplicity of the love you two shared." He looked lost, so after a quick dive into the steamy sanctuary of her teacup, Marigold emerged, ready to elaborate. "I was- as you would say, courted by a young man back in Portland. We fell hard and fast and before either of us knew it, he landed himself a once in a lifetime opportunity, dropped out, headed down to California to pursue an acting career and we haven't spoken since. I returned to Waterford and there was Henry. He was so enamored with the history of the area and the remnants of the insignificant little family called the "Caseys" that… well, after a series of months, his fascination found itself misplaced. We were both terribly confused, you see. Being the historian that he was, he thought that he was marrying a piece of history by marrying me. But I wasn't nearly as interesting as his books. Over time, we both accepted this. Then, there was his ridiculous infatuation with Benedict Arnold's wife. You know I actually caught him sketching her on a napkin when we were having coffee downtown?"

They exchanged looks and Marigold briefly apologized for how confusing her little monologue must have been. Little did she know just how much he had understood; let alone the suspicion about Henry that it had just confirmed.

"I am terribly sorry for your suffering. Having your heart broken once is detrimental enough, but to experience that pain twice in a row without allowing yourself to heal. Not to mention," his voice softened, "and please don't take offence, but it sounds to me both men discarded you as though you were like an old shoe. A lady such as yourself should be treasured and adored."

Hearing those words aloud was difficult, but as ever, she wagered a cheerful response. "That's what dogs are for, I suppose." She leaned over and gave Moxie an affectionate scratch behind the ears.

Tavington could see right through her behavior and into the pain. So, he decided to change the subject.

"I believe I know just the thing to bring levity back into our conversation," he placed his teacup on the nearby end table, rose to his feet and gestured for Marigold's hand, "come with me."

To say that she was reluctant would be an understatement. The question of whether or not this entire evening had been a highly elaborate game of foreplay had crossed her mind more than once. After weighing her options and putting her faith in Moxie's abilities in sensing distress should worse come to worse, she accepted. With a charming grin, he led her across the room and onto the narrow piano bench. Her blood pressure nearly skyrocketed as he placed her hands onto the black and white keys. Muscle memory took over as Marigold turned her attention to the sheet music in front of her and, without a single word, started to play.

The first couple of measures were rough, but it didn't take long for her nerves to channel themselves into her "performance". Her voice followed suit; although it was trembling and pinched at first, it transitioned into her usual crystalline soprano lilt as she progressed. The desire to jump into the music and escape her strange companion was so intense that she didn't realize the cruel irony of the piece that she was playing until came to the line, "true love can be whispered from heart to heart when lovers are parted, they say, but I must depend on a wish and a star as long as my heart doesn't know who you are." He turned the pages for her throughout and remained in perfect silence for some time after her fingers struck the song's final chord.

"Perhaps this is our cue to say goodnight." Marigold suggested, breaking the silence at last. She'd performed the piece before in a college production of "The Music Man", yes, but her only audience since revisiting the score was Moxie. "There's a guest room down the hall and I can bring you some pajamas. You must be exhausted after everything you've been through."

"In truth, Miss Casey," he admitted with care, "I doubt that I will ever be comfortable enough to sleep again."

There was no denying the complex magnetism between them and their proximity to one another on the piano bench didn't help matters at all. She wanted to comfort him and had to think of something fast that wasn't physical. Music seemed to be the best option, but the piano would surely prevent her from getting a wink of rest. So, she decided to give him a lesson on how use her record player. After a half an hour of scratching up several of Henry's albums, he was a pro and was therefore granted access to her entire collection.

When Marigold stepped into the living room the following morning, she was surprised and nearly elated to discover her unusual house guest had been listening to her records at a considerate volume all night.

"Ah, I see you've discovered "Bye Bye Birdie"- good choice!" She beamed as the song, "The Telephone Hour" began to bleed through the speakers.

"Never before have I heard an opera so poorly performed," Tavington criticized, "and yet… I simply cannot stop listening!"

"Infectious, isn't it! Now, I don't work Mondays. But I usually go for coffee with one of my teacher friends this time each week. Would you like me to bring you some tea and pastries from the café?" Marigold asked, removing a teal scarf from the nearby hat rack and twisting it around her neck. Tavington paused before nodding. He was used to fending for himself, but until he had a better grasp on the where and why of his situation, he had to accept Marigold's care.

"I haven't properly thanked you for your kindness, Miss Casey-" A rude knock on the door interrupted his train of thought.

As the door flew open, a tall woman with curly blonde hair stomped in. The noisiness of her boots against the floor threw Moxie into a tizzy.

"It is Fall, y'all!" The woman exclaimed, dropping her armful of tote bags to make room in her arms for the ecstatic collie. As the bags hit the floor, a heavy dusting of orange and gold glitter shot into the air and Tavington was entranced. "Mare, I looked all over Waterford for those damned buzzards you wanted for your Halloween display. You know, to hang on the mailbox at South? I'm talkin' everywhere! JoAnn's, Michael's, Wallie World, 'Hashtag Ho-Lo' that's what my niece called Hobby Lobby last week and it just stuck! You'll never guess where I found 'em-" her eyes dropped to her deeply confused onlooker. "Who is that? And how can he listen to "The Telephone Hour" without it givin' him an aneurism? Or is that why he's on the floor?"

Tavington rose to his feet and bowed deeply. "Colonel William Tavington, Green Dragoons."

Fitful laughter followed, of course. "Where do you find these guys, Mare?! Is there some mail order from the London Museum of Natural History men's section that I did not receive? If so, spill. You stingy lady, you!"

"Colonel, this is Giselle. She's a colorful character just like Jake." Marigold tried her best to explain.

Completely uninterested, Giselle started plowing through the tote bags and pulled out a black feathered crow doll with twist-tie feet. "Lookie, Mare. Here's your buzzard! Isn't he a looker?!" She shoved it in both their faces, but neither of them had the heart to argue in favor of the bird's true identity since she'd clearly 'looked all over town' for it.

Moxie tried her best to pull the crow out of Giselle's grasp, but Marigold managed to stuff it in her tote before heading out the door.

"Moxie, I want you to look after the Colonel while I'm away. We won't be gone for more than a half an hour. Then, I'll show you around town. Oh, give my Gilbert and Sullivan albums a listen. They'd probably be more to your liking. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

He responded with a reassuring grin as Giselle stepped outside. Once they were alone, he managed to find the courage to do what he hadn't last night- namely, gift the smooth skin on the back of her hand with the gentlest kiss.

"It feels cold out there," his blue eyes glistened as he grinned at his bravery, "so bundle up."

Marigold could only smile back, he was almost too charming to be real. "Just try not to burn my house down."

His grin changed only a fraction at this comment, but it went unnoticed by Marigold. After all, she was still very much unaware of many things at this point…


	4. Coffee n' San-tea

Once he was alone with Moxie, Tavington returned to the record player. As Marigold had observed, the music was infectious although most of it came across to him as obnoxious and nonsensical. A highly intelligent man, Tavington extracted a great deal of pleasure in trying to piece together the stories of the musicals based on their soundtracks alone. The underlying reason for his fascination with this strange new mechanism, however, deserves some elaboration:

In less than twenty-four hours, he went from fearing nothing to fearing everything. He dreaded his next encounter with the world outside and spending time with something other than this fear shut his overactive mind down for a while. If the noises from passing cars outside and mighty aircrafts making their descent into Charlestown weren't drowned out by something pleasant, he probably would have suffered a panic attack.

Curiosity got the better of him on several occasions while he was alone in Marigold's bungalow. Moxie watched him like a hawk, so his exploration of the space was limited to the kitchen and living room. The space was cheerfully decorated and it matched the yellow and white exterior of her home to a tee. Potted flowers dominated nearly every surface and the area surrounding the front door housed a large collection of terra cotta planters of summer florals that she'd brought inside to save from the cold. Although his life in the military kept him from pursuing it in whole, plant husbandry always intrigued him.

"Good heavens," he stated wistfully to an uninterested Moxie, "that is the finest collection of orchids I've ever seen. A symbol of fertility, if I'm not mistaken." The herb garden on her kitchen windowsill garnered a great deal of admiration as well. He carefully plucked a peppermint leaf and stuck it in his mouth, causing Moxie to growl. "Between you and me." As he glanced back at the lovingly groomed herbs, a castle-themed wall calendar caught his attention. The erstwhile days were ex'd off with a black sharpie. He saw that today, Monday, was the second of October in the year 2017.

"This still feels like a dream to me," he muttered to Moxie who could be seen crossing the living room and slipping out the doggie door. "Not only are the years startling, but that I died in January and woke up in October. I wonder what is significant about this day, if anything…"

Meanwhile, Downtown

For years, Marigold and her dear friend, Giselle Zipp made a habit of these little Monday morning excursions. No matter what they were going through, their caffeine-fueled conversations allowed them to start the week off on a joyful note. They would walk four blocks from Marigold's bungalow to a small downtown café called "Coffee n' San-tea" and discuss trivial delights while stealing indulgent sips of what was arguably the best hazelnut macchiato in the galaxy. Today shouldn't have been any different. They placed their usual orders and climbed into their usual comfy chairs with the perfect view of the quaint downtown district. The early appearance of autumn foliage was the icing on the cake of this aesthetic. Mere moments after their orders arrived, Giselle saw her friend do the most un-Marigold thing imaginable. Silly as it was, it set her off.

"We got here just in time for you to snag the last almond croissant and what do you do? Instead of shoving it in your face like I've seen you do every Monday since the last ice age… you wrap it up and stick it in your tote for some stupid guy."

Marigold slouched down in the large arm chair and inhaled the macchiato's fragrant steam. "You're very observant."

Ever the instigator, Giselle leaned in, "Don't play nonchalant with me. It's obvious that you were both up all night. No sex is worth the last almond croissant. Even if it was with that blue-eyed buffoon, Commodore Turpentine…"

They shared a quick laugh. "You know that's not his name, Zippy." Marigold teased. If anyone else used that nickname on Giselle, she'd clock them in the nose with such ferocity that their head would spin off their shoulders like a top. "You also know that I would never sleep with someone I'm not-"

"Engaged to. Yeah. Your approach to the dating scene is borderline medieval. Which explains your taste in these… mock gentlemen." She saw that her friend was about to lose patience and decided to cut to the point. "You're too sweet, Mare. You want me to shut up? Then eat your stupid croissant before it gets smushed by-"

"You know, Giselle," Marigold smirked from over the brim of her mug, "I'm starting to think that you don't know me at all. Especially to use a term like _sweet_ -"

"You really want to play this game?" Giselle interrupted with delight, "I'll present you with three solid facts that prove beyond a doubt that you are the biggest softie in the county. If I am successful, you have the croissant and order Congressman Tonka-Truck something cruddy like a slice of carrot cake or an oatmeal raisin cookie. Deal?"

Marigold took her time responding. Giselle always proposed games like these. Her students loved them, but they wore on her friends after several outings. In a feeble attempt to escape, Marigold praised the brief, but artful saxophone solo at the end of Dion's "Runaround Sue" as it played through over the café's tinny speakers. But the song quickly ended and transitioned into Bobby Darin's suave rendition of "Mack the Knife", neither of which Giselle had any interest in commenting on. "Deal."

"One. When you remove a towel from the dryer, you hug it until it stops being warm." A wicked smile formed on the curly haired woman's face. Marigold told her this embarrassing fact last Winter in confidence and regretted it now. "But wait, there's more and this still counts as fact number one. You feel so guilty if anything distracts or pulls you away from your warm-and-fuzzy-towel-friend that you throw it back in for another ten minutes and start the whole sickening process over again. Fact number two! Are ya'll ready for this?! Your first pet was a Madagascar hissing cockroach. Most people would find that gross or creepy until they learn that you saved her from being gassed at your brother's friend's exotic animal compound and that you named her… I'll let you say it."

"Roachelle," replied Marigold as she sunk lower into her seat.

"And did she inspire a poem and soon after, a complete collection of amateur children's books about her adventures named 'The Hiss-terical Duchess Roachelle'?"

Marigold beamed, realizing that she still knew the poem word for word. "YES! Do you want to hear it?" In truth, she knew that Giselle would sooner gouge her own eyeballs out Oedipus-style than listen to any of her recitations.

"Absolutely not. I wanna give you my third fact because it is the frickin' motherload. You still have all of your ex-husband's crap in your house and haven't dared to disturb any of it since the day that bastard vanished into thin air-"

"That is not true." Marigold was bursting with pride. "The Colonel and I destroyed over half of his LP's last night when I taught him how to use my record player."

"What kind of a dude doesn't know how to use a record player? Especially one who looks like he's what? Ten to fifteen years older than you? You think I didn't notice the age difference? If you think he's more mature than Henry just because-"

"This is getting really uncomfortable, Giselle," Marigold confessed. She had a point. "Like borderline sadistic."

Giselle was obviously crushed. She didn't want to say anything painful, but when she was on a roll, filters no longer applied. Marigold understood this better than anyone else because she was the exact same way. "I'm just trying to look out for you."

"Well, throwing salt on an open wound is not the way to go about it. I know what this must look like. But underneath the surface there are a thousand working parts. It is extremely complicated." She downed the last five or so sips of her drink. Speeding up this conversation and getting home was growing in its appeal.

"Okay. But look out for yourself. Because he is dreamy."

"He isn't just dreamy. He's gorgeous." Marigold stopped herself. No filter, indeed.

"Fine, he's gorgeous. Now, have your croissant and get Captain Tinseltown a disappointing bran muffin."

While the friends were arguing lightly in line, who should step into the café but Jake Casey wearing the same finely pressed police uniform from the night before. Like these weekly meetings, Jake's appearances at the café happened like clockwork. Not only did he enjoy counteracting the stress relief that conversing with Giselle always gave his sister, that was a large part of it. But there was another element at work that I'm sure you can figure out:

"Ladies," he tipped his hat and filed up behind them while they exchanged an eyeroll or two, "what brings you to this fine café on this beautiful October morning?"

"Marigold has a special friend and I don't like him. So, I'm making her buy him the most disappointing pastries in the batch." Giselle stated, looking straight ahead and giving the barista a tiny wink. "Sorry, hun. When they are good they are very, very good. But when they are bad, they are health food."

Clearly embarrassed, Marigold stepped ahead and snapped open her wallet. "Sorry, Heather. Giselle finds anything subpar if it isn't a deep-fried Twinkie…"

"Wait-" Jake cut in front of Marigold, "you don't mean the same silly-nanny from last night?! And now she's buying him breakfast!?"

"Yep," Giselle confirmed, crossing her arms, "Before too long, she'll be making Chairman Tardis-Butt sandwiches and rubbing his feet."

At first, Marigold expected Jake would stomp out of the café, hop in his facetious black Mazda3, floor it all the way to her place and sock the poor Colonel in the face. Instead, he reached for his wallet and attempted to charm the barista with a quirky wiggle of his nose and goatee'd mouth. Think "Bewitched", but infinitely less precious.

"Let's see… two bran muffins, a slice of carrot cake, four oatmeal raisin cookies and seven of those weird little fig bar things. Does he have any known allergies? C'mon, Sis! I'm saving you a fortune here! Help a guy out a little…"

"He mentioned something about tomatoes* last night, but I'm not sure." Marigold half-suggested for the sake of shutting her brother up.

"The largest size of tomato bisque you have, an order of those nasty little fried green tomatoes and a side order of tomato slices. You know, like what you do for pickles-"

"I'm sorry, Officer," the barista named Heather interrupted, secretly pleased that she couldn't fulfill her obnoxious customer's wishes, "lunch isn't available for another two hours."

"Well, I'll just have to come back later, won't I?" He turned around and winked at Giselle who knew that all of this was to impress her and frankly, was on the verge of being sick.

"And anything to drink today?"

"Some V8. Tomato Lovers Blend if that's a thing. And two more of those damned macchiato concoctions for my mousy sissy and her gorgeous pal. If life was a chick flick, Zippy would be the sexy leading lady and Mare would be her pimply sidekick, don't you think?"

By the end of the transaction, Marigold was redder than the V8. She pulled Giselle away, certain that if the group remained there a while longer, broken noses and possibly even handcuffs would be involved—and she had a Colonel to get back to. Of course, Jake followed them out of the building and continued to taunt Giselle.

"You're my Rushmore, sweetie!" He blew Giselle a kiss before driving away.

Marigold held back a comment about hypocrisy and men referencing women's favorite movies to get under their skin. Instead, she waved him farewell from over the top of the paper bag filled will nearly every fiber-filled goodie imaginable.

"Man, he's a cutiepie." Giselle confessed sotto voce as they headed down the street. "If he had just a little more grit, I'd let him buy me a drink. But no, he's a softie just like his sister." When Marigold refused to respond, her rant commenced. "So, will you at least give me all the dirt on you and Chief TextingTeen when he finally jumps your bones? I mean, between all of your future colonoscopies? Nobody should have that much fiber."

Marigold wrinkled your nose. "Don't be disgusting. And since we're being so transparent with one another today, if you don't take the initiative and let Jake buy you that drink, you're going to miss your chance. He's completely mad about you, but is dumber than this bag of muffins and could use a hint."

"Only if you keep me posted on… you know."

Marigold agreed even though she knew that Giselle could talk just about anything out of her in the long run.

…

The door clicked open and Marigold stepped in, struggling for balance against the weight of the paper bag. Tavington stood with every intention of alleviating her misery, but she managed to reach an end table first. "Here's a macchiato for you and I have an almond croissant in my bag. You're probably used to really fancy stuff, but I figured if I couldn't go wrong with ordering you my favorite things…" Her hair fell into her face as she handed him the paper mug. Carefully, he accepted it.

"Rest assured, I will repay you for your kindness." He watched as Marigold hunted for the croissant that she'd hidden from Giselle. "Miss Casey?" She stopped what she was doing and looked up, their eyes locked and their proximity decreased. Tavington reached out and smoothed Marigold's pale hair behind her ear.

She turned red again. "What was that about?"

"You're so much like her. In every way."

Redder still. She turned her attention to her hunt for the croissant. "What did you think of Gilbert and Sullivan?"

"I have yet to visit them. After finishing… "Birdie" and giving "Fame" a quick listen, I did some more hunting and found myself to be rather partial to Ricky Nelson."

Marigold froze as she passed him the bag containing the (somewhat smushed) croissant. "You're joking? My mom gave me that record because she _hated_ it. I thought I wore the poor thing out listening to "Travelin' Man" on repeat during my freshman year of college. Put it on!"

He crossed to the record player, all smiles. "I hate to disagree with you, Miss Casey, "Travelin' Man" is secondary to this track."

The needle dropped and "Hello, Mary Lou" faded in.

"You are a surprising man, Colonel." Marigold said, carrying Jake's purchases into the kitchen, bit by bit. "So, I was thinking about showing you around town today. Unless you have any objections." He followed, munching happily on the croissant with Moxie at his heels.

"You're not at all interested in finding out why I am here?"

Marigold turned. This was either a fantastic question or a revolting chat up line. Since she was beginning to believe that he was who he claimed to be, she went ahead and jumped. "If you have any ideas, Colonel, I'd love to hear them."

"I was looking at your calendar and noticed that today is 2nd of October. I left 1781 on the 17th of January. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

She looked across the room at Henry's bookcase. "There's only one way to find out, I suppose. Let's do a little research…"

Several hours of hunting and the answer was right under their noses the entire time. Marigold kneaded her temples, going over what Tavington had just said.

"I think I need to step outside." She confessed. "Moxie is due a walk, anyway." When he offered to go with her, she snapped in defiance. "I'll be back in five and we can finish this conversation, okay?"

He sat down by the record player and that was where she and Moxie left him without looking back. Halfway down the street, Marigold looked over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't followed, reached into her pocket for her phone and found Giselle in her contacts.

"Okay, Butthead, I need you to listen to this whole message and call me back when you're not too busy shaping young minds. You might think that I'm crazy at first and it's completely acceptable to be a few steps behind because I've spent all day trying to convince myself that I'm not crazy. But I'm not. Do you follow? The man that you met this morning is from the year 1781. I made you sit through Kate and Leopold twenty times, same principal. You think that's strange, just wait for the next part… so was Henry. Except he didn't go by Henry back then-" an incoming call cut her off. When she saw who it was coming from, she slid the screen to accept. "Giselle? I really need to talk to you right now."

"No," came Giselle's urgent voice from the other end of the line, "I need to talk to you. Something terrible… earth-shatteringly terrible has happened at the school. You need to stop what you're doing and get down here."

 **Author's Notes: Quick question- is Tavington out of character? I keep trying to weave some explanations for his behavior into this story and I'm sure (hopefully) that it makes sense when placed in sequence with the last story in the "series". He's always struck me as multifaceted, complex and almost split-personality'd in a way; all of that on top of his devotion to Annabelle/Marigold and the guilt that you he carries for her "sacrifice" in my previous fic makes for a weird situation. Wow. That was long. My point is I adored him in the film and want to do his character justice and am concerned that I'm watering down his complexity with my portrayal. Anyway. Reviewers, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to leave your feedback- I'm thrilled to hear that my weird brand of humor is getting laughs and that my Kate and Leopold reference caught on in the previous chapter. It's just the cutest film ever.**

 ***Shameless OA reference because Mr. Isaacs in those glasses is… mmmm…**


	5. The Spectator and the Stage

**Disclaimer:** I recently read that Andre and Tarleton performed in plays together. Thank you, Robert D. Bass. An audible squeal in the middle of Starbucks was just one outcome. Being the theatre kid that I am, inspiration struck hard and this little number was created. The second inevitable outcome. This chapter is weird. But it will make sense in the grand scheme of things, promise!

At first, it felt like drowning. The voice of the stream was magnified when it reached her ears. Her vision had grown distorted, but only around the edges. She could see the tall blades of grass that surrounded her and the dry trunks of several nearby trees. They helped her realize that she was not being submerged, but held just above the ground. She knew him, not sight, but by the strength of his arms and the sound of his breath. The tightness of his embrace grew with every passing moment and yet, she felt something stronger than both of them was at work- pain. A pain unlike anything she'd ever felt before, dizzying and disorienting. He spoke softly to her, calling her by a name that she knew, but that wasn't her own.

"Annabelle," his face came into focus, but only slightly. Marigold could see his handsome features taking form against the gentle framing of his long, dark hair. "Dear Annabelle," he seemed to beg, "listen. I cannot carry you or ride without using both hands and the bandaging will only do so much. Will you keep pressure on your wound while I ride you into camp?"

Marigold searched for the source of the radiating pain with her fingertips and when she was unsuccessful, he guided her hands. Sure enough, the fabric separating her touch from the deep bullet hole was thoroughly soiled with fresh blood. Panic came next. Marigold's hands shot into the air, barely reaching her narrowing field of vision. From the tips of her fingers to the base of her palms, an unmistakable coat of crimson glistened in the sunlight. Everything that she was, body and soul was quickly fading. Dying. Somewhere inside, she surrendered just enough strength to her one and only survival tactic- words. Except when she spoke, it wasn't a word at all, but a name…

"William!" Marigold cried at the top of her lungs.

As the familiar white and yellow furnishings and décor came into view, she realized that she was sitting upright in her own bed, drenched in a cold sweat. From below, she could hear the squeaking shower handle in the guest bathroom and the constant flow of water that must have inspired her dream, shutting off.

"Do not come up here, do not come up here," she thought aloud as his feet began to fall loudly on the stairs.

"Miss Casey?" Asked the voice behind the door between knocks. "Miss Casey, are you alright?"

"Don't come in here, Colonel. I'm still mad at you."

After a moment or two, he could be heard walking away. Her pulse mellowed out as she threw herself down on her cheerful, yellow comforter and switched on her phone. "October 2, 2017 11:34 PM" stared back at her on the face of the neon screen. Several emails were listed below the time and date, but there was nothing of importance. Nothing pertaining to what had happened earlier that day. This came as both a relief and a source of great frustration.

"Miss Casey?" Tavington beckoned again. From the kitchen, by the sound of it. "Miss Casey? Your canine is distressing."

Marigold covered her face with her hands. "Distressing?"

"It's a polite way of saying that she is on the verge of suffering… an involuntary reflex of the stomach."

"Good God," she moaned, collecting her robe and keys and heading down the hallway, "Sure! I accidentally put it in the section of the fridge labeled 'dog food'! But you should have known not to give a dog carrot cake. I don't care what year you're from."

She clipped Moxie's leash on as gently as possible and headed for the front door. Had she stayed a moment longer, her presence surely would have initiated another strain of elaborate apologies from Tavington and she didn't want to hear it. Between his earlier claim that he knew Henry in his previous life by the name of "John Andre" and that today was the 237th anniversary of his execution, she craved distance from him for a while. That was just the tip of the iceberg, however. After leading Moxie to the street-side grass reserved for the neighborhood dogs, Marigold dialed Giselle who answered not a moment later.

"Since you haven't texted me, I assume they haven't found either of them." Marigold shook in reaction to the cold as she spoke.

"No. Someone did have a camera, though. They posted a video of it on Youtube. The quality is really bad, but you can see that they were fighting and that Darren Baako pushed her off of the bleachers. I can send you the link if you'd like."

Marigold grumbled. Her students truly knew no shame.

"I mean," Giselle seemed to insist, "you mentioned earlier that if you had only been there-"

"I just don't believe that Tristan vanished after being pushed off those bleachers. Or that Darren just ran away. He can be… unpleasant… at times, but he isn't heartless. Not at all. There's just no logical explanation for… well, anything of this." By the end of the sentence, her teeth were practically chattering. She leaned over and stepped down on Moxie's leash as she stuck her hands deeply into her robe's pockets. It was starting to appear that Moxie was merely trying to sneak another walk in and was not going to be sick, after all. But Marigold wanted to be safe.

"Since you woke me up, can I run something by you?" There was a high ring in Giselle's voice that seemed to indicate a cheerful change of subject. "Mare?"

"Go for it."

"Great! So, my little beansprouts hate, hate, hate geometry. And I want to be it fun for them, y'all follow? If you and I went to the craft store this weekend, would you help me find the stuff for us to make frap-a-zoids in class? Frappuccinos shaped like trapezoids!? With lil' green straws and some cotton balls for whip-"

"Two of your students are missing, your best friend is on the verge of what you referred to earlier as 'a complete mental breakdown' and all you can think about is arts and crafts? I can't believe…" She would have continued her critique of Giselle's aloof behavior had Moxie not pulled the leash out from under her and started barking hysterically at an approaching figure.

From what Marigold could see, it was muscular young man who was significantly taller than she was. He appeared to be minding his own business and would have passed by without paying them any regard, but Marigold's watch and Moxie's barking seemed to disturb him. As he moved beneath the pool of light from a nearby streetlamp, she could see that he had a narrow face and dark, curly hair; but it was the teal letterman jacket that gave his identity away.

"Isn't it a little late for you to be out? You know, a lot of people are looking for you…" Marigold asked, gaining control of her hysterical collie dog.

"Hang up your phone. You aren't going to tell anyone that you saw me, go it?" Darren Baako spoke in a hushed voice and seemed more paranoid than anything, but this demand was strange. What happened next was even more unsettling. He removed his hand from his pocket, revealing a small black handgun.

Marigold powered down her phone and pocketed it. It's difficult to describe how she felt in this moment. Perhaps because there truly were no words. She could feel her heart sinking below her stomach as he took aim and prepared to fire.

"You don't want to do this," she pleaded, "you are a wonderful young man. Hurting Tristan and now… this? This isn't you, Darren. Will you please just talk to me? Tell me what is going on?"

"How will I know that you won't turn me in?" His hand was clearly shaking, but he lowered the weapon by a few millimeters, regardless.

Had he not seen the shadow of the curious onlooker in Marigold's kitchen window, panic wouldn't have gotten the best of him and he wouldn't have fired. Once the bullet was released, there was no taking it back. He dropped the gun on the ground as if it were a piece of smoldering coal in his palm and sprinted into a cluster of nearby trees. Moxie was torn between chasing after him or remaining by his mistress' side. The latter won out as Marigold collapsed. The whimpering collie stuck her nose under Marigold's arm, begging for a pat or a comforting word to indicate that she was okay, but neither gesture came. Tavington faced the same dilemma when he reached the scene of the crime. He was making his way to the front door when Darren escaped and therefore, had no idea of where he ran off to.

The outpour of blood was overwhelming and worse than he remembered Annabelle's to be. When he located the entry wound, he realized that it was both smaller and higher up on her torso. Pressure was the tactic that he had used before to save her, but this time, it would do no good. He couldn't find a single pulse, heartbeat or breath entering or leaving her lungs. The neighbors were beginning to gather. One or two had mentioned that help was on the way. Those words meant nothing to Tavington. By some miracle, he'd traveled across centuries to find her only to lose her a second time.

Like before, she seemed to have slipped through his arms and landed in an upright position. The scenery was different this time; recognizable, yes, but Marigold knew it only from pictures and had never been there before in her life. She was seated in the lowest centralized level of a round, wooden theatre. There was no set and the stage itself was empty save for two lone performers. Between them, a silken tapestry fluttered. As the performers manipulated it, Marigold could see that it possessed every shape and color imaginable. The abstract, mosaic-like pictures shifted with each turn, enchanting her and inviting her to take a closer look.

"Do you know what theatre this is, Marigold?" Echoed a familiar voice from a few seats over.

Challenging as it was to turn her attention away from the beautiful, peculiar spectacle on the stage, Marigold had no choice. He was exactly how she remembered him. As he stood, the moonlight from the theatre's open ceiling caused the golden buttons on his red coat to glisten.

"John Andre, I presume?" Marigold sneered.

"Or Henry Anderson. As you like it." He managed to hold her attention for a moment longer. When the tapestry stole it away, he pressed. "Look, we are in a bit of time crunch, Mare."

"Dammit, Henry. This right here was our tragedy. There was always something of greater importance going on. Conversations were rushed and before we knew it, we weren't speaking at all." She stopped, perhaps going back to his previous question was the better option in this situation. "The theatre is… Elizabethan in structure, if I'm not mistaken. Would you mind telling me why I am here? With you? And what we are watching on the stage, exactly?"

"This is The Globe. Not the restoration, but the real thing. Exactly as it was before it burned to the ground three years before Shakespeare died."

Marigold touched the edge of her seat, then the railing. Based on her intermediate knowledge of restorations, she could tell that the surrounding structure was made by hand and not by machine. "So, I traveled through time? Just like you and the Colonel?"

"And your young student as well." He nodded.

Marigold's heart leapt. "You've seen Tristan!? Does this mean that she? That we?" She glanced down at her attire. She was dressed in the same white, Target brand, "silk" pajamas and yellow cotton robe that she was wearing during her confrontation with Darren. On them, there wasn't a single trace of blood. She recalled the blood on Tavington the night before and her eyes filled with questions.

"You are not dead, Mare. Like William is or I am. Tristan is not dead, either. You will be seeing her again before long. But first, the theatre."

Marigold tried to quiet her mind, but a million questions were boiling to the surface. "Yes, the theatre," she said with some difficulty, "why are we in this particular theatre? In the- what 1600's?"

"When we were married, we argued about nearly everything. Finding common ground was a daily struggle. But we both loved Shakespeare. As a matter of fact, the day that I decided I wanted to marry you, we had this discussion at that little café you loved so much. You said to me, 'It's a shame that out of the endless landscape of prose that he crafted for us, only a few soliloquies are commonplace. We've plucked them, hardly knowing what they mean, and placed them in a vase on our kitchen tables to admire for their beauty, but scarcely understand in their entirety.' Don't look so surprised. So many of your words were branded into my heart like a hot iron."

A bashful tear formed in the corner of her eye. To her relief, he caught it before it could take full form.

"I did love you," he confessed, "like the painter with his brush strokes or the sculptor with his clay; you truly were an artist with words. That is why it pains me to use a "commonplace" soliloquy to describe this metaphor that you and I have defied time and space to meet within."

"All the world's a stage," Marigold nodded, it was an easy enough riddle. "You and I are caught somewhere between the heavens and the stage- the world below. But why?"

"Because only a poet would believe that if love, or in my case grief, is strong enough, logic stands no chance against it. You remember those sketches that I kept? Would you find it difficult to believe that after you go back, I will remain here and wait for her?" Silence. "Which brings me to my next question, what do you think of William?"

Marigold grew uncomfortable. As she answered, she watched the tapestry's images shift above the stage floor. "He is kind to me. Almost too kind. There's a part of me that he has already captured. Everything else, is like trying to retrieve the pieces of a dandelion on the breeze and return them to their stalk. Was he truly as brutal as they say?"

"From the time he landed in America, he was eager to impress. I believe the desire to restore his family's name drove his ambition. Most of his transformation, however, I didn't witness in full. One day, we were drinking, discussing poetry and performing in plays together and the next, I was trying to piece together why he had earned the name 'The Butcher' after he rode south. There were mentions of a woman in his letters. If anything could ever redeem him, it was her. My advice for you is read the book. You know the one I mean. The one that you are frightened of because it bears witness to all of his sins. Read it cover to cover. Then, when you do go back, you will know how to save him. You might even be able to save me, too."

"What do you mean?"

The same handsome smile that he'd charmed her with countless times before appeared, "Everyone loses in love. You said so yourself. Everyone wants more time in the end. And it is incredibly lonely here, waiting for her to arrive." He could see Marigold's forehead crease. "Look at me and tell me that William wasn't the last thing on your mind before you arrived here. You two have moments, don't you? Where you feel as though you've tapped into the other one's mind?" They exchanged looks. "The decisions that you have ahead of you will bring you joy. And grief. And there will be consequences for rewriting the past. But you are being given a rare opportunity."

The clanging of bells sounded in the night. With each chime, the dance of the performers and their tapestry decreased in speed.

"They're slowing down," Marigold observed, "why?"

"You can only freeze time for so long. I know you're curious about the tapestry. Go, take a better look. Grab hold before the last bell chimes and I promise you, wherever it lands is where you are needed next."

She started to head towards the stage, but paused. "I won't leave without Tristan."

"You will see her again. I promise. You will see me again, too. Now, go. Quickly."

The bells seemed to grow louder with every passing second. Marigold climbed the steps and moved towards the tapestry. Inside each of the tiny, moving bits of color, she could see fragments of leaves, buildings, waves in the ocean and clouds in the sky. Every scene to ever take place on the stage known as the world passed before her eyes.

"Oh, and Marigold?" He called, catching her attention one last time. "It was wonderful to see you again."


	6. Two Conversational Hearts

The shock that Marigold had experienced in her room that night was nothing compared to resuscitation. Consciousness was immediate when she awoke from her dream. This time, however, she was aware of her surroundings but entirely separate from them; reduced to an outsider looking in on the world that she'd temporarily left. Poor Tavington was almost as lost as she was. He understood what the technicians were trying to do but that didn't stop his presence from stirring animosity amongst them. He refused to leave her side throughout the whole process and challenged anyone who suggested otherwise.

Numerous long wires and thin lines filled with blood surrounded them. Machinery was a new concept to him and perhaps when all is said and done, it was helpful for him to see it being used to bring the woman he loved back from certain death. Anxiety from both ends combined with the cold air inside the ambulance's cabin caused them to shake violently. The only thing that seemed real to either of them was their tightly clasped hands. The more alert Marigold became, the tighter she grasped. He didn't know this at the time, but she was fighting to remember what had happened and as her memories collected themselves, she realized that she had fallen off the edge of the earth. His hand was her anchor, the only thing keeping her from slipping away again.

Things changed drastically when they reached the hospital. While the bullet had only grazed a major artery, emergency surgery was required and they were separated almost immediately after arriving. The moment that the connection was broken, Marigold's heartrate plummeted. There were doubts amongst the staff that she would even survive the long trek to the OR. After flatlining once in the elevator and immediately after going under the knife, she truly was lucky that the leading doctor on her case was persistent. A young doctor who was just as stubborn as she was would prove to be an asset, but something else would be required to save the life of Marigold Casey that fateful morning.

Tavington should have been curious about his surroundings but instead, he sat in complete silence and stillness for the six hours that followed. Jake and Giselle arrived in the last hour. The mood was somber, a far cry from the usual atmosphere that their presence inspired. Giselle knew that Marigold would be concerned about Moxie and decided to bring her along but was stopped halfway through the door. So, she would go out to her van every twenty minutes or so to check on her. Had Tavington been more aware, he would have realized that every time Giselle stepped back into the waiting room, her heavy makeup had dampened and smudged a little bit more.

Before long, the early morning light started to reflect off of the parking garage across the street. It was around this time that the door opened and a middle-aged woman in surgeon's attire stepped into the waiting room.

"Is anyone from the immediate family of," she glanced at her clipboard, unapologetically "Marigold Victoria Casey present?" Jake practically sprinted across the room.

The tension was heavy. Giselle remained in her seat, clutching tightly to its flimsy cushioning. Neither of them could hear the exchange so of course, they speculated. Tavington knew before Giselle did. As the conversation grew heated, he could read the surgeon's face like an open book because he had seen that same expression so many times before in camp after combat. Jake's response, on the other hand, told Giselle everything that she needed to know.

"Don't say that to me! Don't you dare say that to me! You have no right to say that you tried your best to save her!"

The surgeon's grey eyes moved across the room. They were glazed over and quickly filling with regret. First, she looked to Tavington. His stare was sharper and more challenging than ever in the wake of his greatest loss. He held her gaze for a moment before she turned to a softer target, Giselle, who was losing her composure by the minute. She gave her a quick albeit sorrowful nod of her head before exiting through the door with Jake behind her. Everyone in the waiting room listened closely as his fury continued to grow.

"This can't be real," the pain in the surgeon's eyes didn't come close to Giselle's, "please tell me this isn't real."

Tavington weighed his options. He could confront the surgeon alongside Jake, which was growing in appeal as his anger and disbelief increased. He could run to find Marigold and somehow, someway, perform the miracle that the team of doctors had denied her. Or he could remain with Marigold's dearest friend and seek the comfort that they both so desperately needed in one another's company.

"It isn't real," he coaxed, moving into the chair beside her, "none of this is."

If anything, his response managed to stay her disbelief for a moment longer. "How do you know?"

"Because I love her," he said, simply, "our hearts whisper to one another and I can hear her clearly."

Giselle's expression changed as she remembered who she was talking to. "Two days ago, she didn't even know you. Then you appear and she ends up-" the words were too painful to say. "Jake is her brother, she and I grew up together, we love her! How dare you say that you love her, too. For all I know this is your fault." She made her way through the sliding doors and disappeared around the corner.

Jake made an appearance sometime later, but was wrapped up in an emotional phone call and uninterested in any sort of an exchange with Tavington. So was everyone else, it seemed. They came for Giselle next. She was standing in the courtyard, coughing down a cigarette that she had bummed from a passerby in an attempt to calm her nerves. When she asked for more time, Tavington volunteered to make that sobering walk.

He tried to convince himself that he could hear her voice, but logic slowly won over in his mind with every step. "Sinking" was far too tame a word; seeing her was a freefall. What he had witnessed on the sidewalk earlier was different because he had seen nearly everything and felt more involved in the outcome, somehow. The crudely mended incision peeked out at him from beneath the low neckline of her gown. Her wavy strands of pale hair were tucked carelessly behind her neck. He pulled them out tenderly and placed them against each shoulder blade to mimic her usual styling. The staff's lack of care was evident, but it was her stillness that killed him. Even when she was lost in thought or weary from a long day's work, she was constantly in motion. Seeing her now should have hardly been like seeing her at all; like looking at an impressionist's rendition instead of the real thing. But everything from her sweet, childlike features to her tiny, bare ankles and feet at the end of her cot were her own. With his heart and mind still in a freefall, Tavington reached out to touch her, expecting warmth but receiving nothing but cold. His fingertips traced her colorless arm. He didn't pause once until they landed in her palm.

"I held you in the palm of my hand, my sweet hummingbird. I could have saved you, merely by refusing to let go." He could feel his voice failing, breaking like a frail branch under too much pressure. "But they took you away from me for far too long…"

...

Pain was the first thing that Marigold realized as she awoke. It was dull, but prominent. She shifted about momentarily, familiarizing herself with her new surroundings. The sparsely decorated room was very small, but strangely comfortable. And strangely familiar.

A man entered the room with a tray balanced on one hand and a tall, glowing candlestick in the other. On the tray, Marigold could see a shallow bowl filled with a medley of berries and sliced fruit dressed in a drizzling of golden honey. A steaming cup of what smelled like herbal tea clattered against the bowl as he walked. Whoever he was, he seemed to know the exact makings and portions of her ideal breakfast. As he placed the tray on the nightstand, she caught his glance. He was older with a friendly face, golden hair and a pair of tiny spectacles on the tip of his upturned nose. To Marigold, his features and mannerisms were a patchwork quilt of nearly everyone she knew who was a Casey by blood. His attire was clearly of the past. Likely colonial, but Marigold didn't want to jump to any conclusions just yet.

"Will today be the day, Little Hummingbird? Will you finally tell me what happened?" His smile was inviting, but his voice possessed a ring of impatience.

Marigold muttered a simple "thank you". She didn't want to press for answers right away and tried to come up with the best way to initiate a beneficial conversation while staying true to the role that she had been thrust into. "How are you this morning?" When he didn't respond, she decided to roll the dice again. "What day is it?"

"Why would it matter to you what day it is, Annabelle? All you do anymore is sit in here and write in that infernal book."

As Marigold straightened her back, the same deep soreness beneath her ribcage arrived again. "It helps with the pain."

"Not nearly as much as returning to your old routine would. Come with me today. The students would love to see you after all of this time!"

She smiled. At his enthusiasm, yes, but also at the possibility that the man she was talking to was Solomon Casey. Furthermore, that she was being given an opportunity to visit the Casey Schoolhouse as it was centuries prior to its restoration. After taking a sip of the peppermint tea that he had lightly sweetened for her with stunning precision, Marigold nodded. "Perhaps you are right."

"Of course, I'm right. I'm your father." There was her confirmation. Solomon knelt by a large, wooden trunk that was placed below the room's only window. The curtains billowed as he moved, causing the dim, autumn morning light to enter the room. He pulled out three neatly folded dresses and placed them beside Marigold. They were solid colored and very plain but washed and folded with great care, nonetheless. "If you need any assistance, I will be in my study." Before leaving, he placed his hand on Marigold's shoulder. "If you only knew how long I have prayed for this morning, Annabelle. Keep a firm grasp on that smile, it would pain me to see you lose it again."

As if Solomon's beautifully prepared breakfast wasn't delightful enough; having to choose one of three authentic, hand-sewn dresses from the 1700's made Marigold feel as though she had died and gone to heaven. The yellow dress caught her attention first and would have been a more obvious choice; but the emerald won her over in the end when she realized that its sleeves were embroidered with a pattern of tiny roses and vines. As she was securing the final button, a small leather book on a nearby table stole her attention away. The quill resting beside it indicated that this was the book Solomon had mentioned earlier. As she removed it from the tabletop, a thick piece of folded parchment slipped out. It was a letter. A letter addressed to her.

 _Marigold,_

 _I apologize for the delay in your journey. Please understand that it is my hope that you will find reward during this brief intermission. The man called Andre spoke of a book and while there is much to gain from its pages, I believe that this one will benefit you greatly on your quest for answers. Let me begin by telling you that the world around you is both reality and fabrication. I share with you not only the pain from your wound, but the heaviness of heart that this place evokes. This is, very simply, a world without him; a world in which I survived and he did not. Father will press for answers. He is only concerned and means well. Do not feel guilty for being unable to give him what he seeks. Your time here is brief and once you learn, it will have ended. My instructions for you are simple: read it all, understand what you can and once you are done, bury it in the schoolyard. What you will learn of William and I in the days that follow may shock you. Ours was merely a glimpse of love. I could make countless testaments to his character; but since we are in a race against the clock, I must leave you with this thought: to love him is to love the man beneath a mask. To save him is to love him mask and all._

 _Take the good with the bad,_

 _Annabelle Casey_

Marigold tucked the book and letter away in her corset. She'd kept it loose to avoid discomfort and the book seemed to add enough bulk to keep her attire together. Before stepping out into the brisk morning air, Solomon pulled a coat over her shoulders, a fatherly thing to do. They conversed lightly during the walk, but Marigold was half-present. Most of her energy was used to take in the quaint obscurity before her that was (or rather, would become) Waterford, South Carolina.

The landscape, sans buildings, was only partially recognizable. Since they were heading to the schoolhouse from the rural outskirts of town, she was able to piece some of the locations together but everything else was open for interpretation. Most of the buildings towards the center of town were long gone by the time Marigold was born. A crescent-shaped body of water surrounded by several knolls and bright green vegetation would eventually become the neighborhood park that she and Moxie frequented. Of everything, this was her only true landmark to work from until they reached the schoolhouse. The area surrounding it that would become the "street" and eventually, the boxy, modern monstrosity known as Waterford High School was home to a general store, a small church, several homes and a large commune that was sectioned off for multipurpose harvesting and grazing.

Many of the townsfolk were still in their homes at this hour, preparing for the day. But Solomon and Marigold passed and greeted several fellow early risers during their trek. Marigold didn't know their names, of course, but she followed Solomon's lead and remained inconspicuous. Annabelle was reputed as a nuisance to everyone in town. Crossing paths with her meant an endless strain of outlandish stories and impossible questions; so, her shyness this morning came as a pleasant surprise. Seeing the schoolhouse, however, caused Marigold to shed her skin. The humble, red building was exactly how she'd known it to be in life and in all her dreams. Stepping inside, her heart began to flutter. Her restorations (two of which she would have to undergo serious repair if she ever made it home) were the picture of accuracy and perfection.

"What a merry mood you are in this morning!" Solomon remarked from across the room. Marigold hardly noticed that she was humming as she prepared the children's desks for the day.

"Sorry if I'm disturbing you," she finished cleaning the final desktop chalkboard and placed a stick of fresh chalk beside it, "is there anything else you'd like me to do before they arrive?"

He crossed his arms, pretending that he knew what she was implying. But her behavior this morning was as good as a mystery to him. "Not at all, Annabelle. Besides, you have an apple tree to climb. I can give you a boost if you need one."

Marigold was intrigued by the apple tree. The image of Tavington seated on its ruin did indeed cross her mind as they walked by it earlier. She even knew, somewhere in the far corners of her mind, that Annabelle and Tavington alike had a connection to it. So, it seemed like a good place to start.

"I can manage, Father. If you need anything at all, you know where to find me."

The climb wasn't quite the struggle that she had feared it would be. A sturdy, low-hanging branch with its bark disturbed from years of climbing and perching granted her safe passage into the tree's leafy domain. She removed the notebook and was readying herself to leap into its pages when the cheerful voices of children filled the air.

"Look! It's Miss Casey!" Shouted a young boy as he tore free from his mother's hand. A cluster of boys and girls around the same age followed.

"Miss Casey, will you be teaching us today?" Several asked.

A sweet little redheaded girl approached the tree. Marigold was ready to jump down and stop her from attempting to climb; but she merely stopped and placed her tiny hands on the trunk. Her blue eyes were doleful and wide. "Miss Casey, your father never lets us make costumes and put on plays. Or write poems, ever!"

If she had more time for such things, Marigold would have leapt from the tree and commandeered the classroom in a heartbeat, but the notebook beckoned.

"Don't worry, my dear," Marigold smiled encouragingly, "I will convince Father to let me teach again very soon."

Word spread quickly and the children appeared to be more content as Solomon ushered them into the building. Once Marigold was alone, she stretched out across the branch and explored the little book. She quickly learned that it was owned twice, once by Tavington who used it for the visual documentation of new breeds of plants that he'd encountered in the colonies. There were some exceptions, of course. Once it was in Annabelle's hands, she used it for poetry. The majority of the poems, unsurprisingly, centralized around metaphors for Tavington that Marigold couldn't have agreed more with. The poems seemed to stop in 1781. Around this time, Annabelle made way for a new form of expression. The letters that she had penned for him after his death were difficult to read. The pain that Marigold felt after Henry had left wasn't even remotely close to Annabelle's grief for her William. She was feeling ready to take a break from the book for a while when she discovered that her name had been scribbled in the upper-hand corner of one letter she had penned for him. After taking a deep breath, started to read:

 _My Dearest William,_

 _Three long months have passed since you left me. Seeing the Winter making way for Spring seems to me a parody. Everything and everyone around me is unaffected by your defeat. You used to pride yourself for never losing a battle and I will openly admit to scarcely understanding your obsession with glory. Could it be that your ghost has latched on to me, forcing me to mourn your losses and my own simultaneously? Could this connection between our hearts still endure? I should beg you to release me! Heaven knows, I pray each night for the strength to let you go. I only wish to follow nature's example and allow my heart to thaw and warm beneath the sun just as the hallowed field upon which you left me forever has done. But William, I am flesh and blood, heart and soul. The earth forgets, for that is its way. But I cannot forget; I am condemned to love a ghost and that is my tragedy. Perhaps if I had made this discovery known to you before you departed, you could have told me what it meant: every time you held me, I would listen to your heartbeat and in turn, feel my own fill the spaces in between. The result was a single, inexhaustible beat; a conversation between hearts that never ended. Or rather, that was never supposed to end. I cannot lift my hand to my own heart without being reminded of what you left behind. A vacancy, an unanswered question. My poor heart continues to beat, searching endlessly for your reply. Until I hold you again, that silence will remain the loudest noise on heaven and earth. Until I right the wrong that I intended when I failed to beg you to wait for your order instead of racing careless towards death, I will be haunted. Not by your presence, but your absence._

 _I will write again shortly,_

 _A.C._

The remaining pages followed a similar pattern of melancholy. When Marigold finished them, her heart was tired and weighted. Fragmented as it was, the notebook helped her to hear Annabelle's side of the story. There were still missing pieces and she hoped that the book Andre had mentioned would fit inside those empty spaces. She also gained insight into what Solomon was dealing with and found joy in knowing that she'd given him his "daughter" back for a while this morning. She wanted so badly to bid him adieu and thank him for his kindness, but that would have been an unusual gesture. After taking a final look at the schoolhouse and the stunning way in which her own reflection overlapped Solomon's form as he moved about on the other side of the window, Marigold dug a tiny, shallow grave and slipped the book inside.

…

While Giselle was pacing anxiously in the hallway, a technician stopped by to inform Tavington that his time was Marigold was running out. He was so deeply consumed by sorrow that he hadn't stopped to consider what would happen next. His previous life and all his ambitions had died with him in battle. His current life and any hope for the future had died with Marigold that morning. Throughout this visit, the slender fingers of her ivory hand were tucked tightly between his lips and palm, catching more tears than he ever would have cared to admit. As he opened his stinging eyes, he realized that she hadn't moved. She was exactly how he had left her, quiet, still, as pale and cold as virgin snow. Never before had his tears flowed more freely than when he kissed her brow and whispered something that neither Annabelle nor Marigold heard him say simply and directly in life.

"I love you." The words were cleansing. He repeated them under his breath as he positioned their hands just beneath her heart. As his grasp loosened, he begged her to return. Not through words for they would surely fail him. Had it not been for the new wave of tears that cast their blinding spell on his eyes, he would have seen the loose threads of Marigold's incision tightening on their own and the soft, pink glow of life stirring just below him. As her chest swelled, filling with a sudden intake of air, her hand closed in on his.

"Don't leave me yet!" Her voice was hushed but urgent. As their eyes met, she could see what Annabelle had written of in one of her poems. Those eyes, those tempest-colored eyes that were usually so strong and fierce, had been reduced to something else entirely. Like her ancestor, she saw in them vulnerability, kindness and above all, the ability to harbor tremendous love. If she didn't love him already, and part of her truly did- she loved him now fully.

"Leave you?" He was going to move his hand, but Marigold had other plans. "Miss Casey, I am devoted to you entirely."

Marigold could feel her heartbeat with the back of her right hand and reached out with her left, pressing it against his strong chest. She closed her eyes tightly, reveling in the discovery that Annabelle had helped her make. "Feel my heartbeat, William," she grinned, leading his hand, "and your own. So that you are feeling them beat at the same time." As her eyes opened, she saw in his eyes both disbelief and adoration.

"What does it mean?"

Had she known the answer, she surely would have shared it with him. "I think it means that we will always find one another." In truth, she wasn't far off…

Author's Note: Oh, woof. This chapter was heavier than I had originally intended. Go big or go home, I guess. Your reviews for the last chapter were wonderful, by the way. I'm sorry if the story is complicated. It always makes sense when I outline and then bits and pieces become lost in translation when I actually sit down and write. Hopefully, I'll get better about this in time. If anything is confusing or if you see something that I should expand on within the text, let me know. Critique of all kinds is writer soul food. In addition, the next chapter will be lighter with plenty of goofy Giselle/Jake moments!


	7. Compromise and Devotion

Every Fall for the last three years, Marigold would invite Giselle and Jake over for the first fire of the season. The circulation of air in her bungalow was poor at best so the kitchen window needed to remain popped open while the fireplace was blazing, even in the cold of winter. It was for this reason that she reserved its usage for special occasions throughout the colder months of the year. After waiting all day to have her release papers signed and giving numerous, exhausting police statements, Marigold was more than ready for a relaxing evening at home. Despite the protests from the trio, she managed to convince them to come over for several hours at the end of a day that was long and tiresome to say the least.

Everyone had questions about Marigold's miraculous recovery, of course. It was very difficult for her to bring everyone back to their usual rapport after they were reunited and her struggles didn't end there. Weary of watching his sister beg for privacy all day, Jake felt compelled to use his authority to fight in its favor. Not only had she cheated death, but a sensationalistic segment on the local news as well thanks to her always persistent brother. Jake and Giselle were supportive of her decision, yes, but longed to know the truth along with the rest of the baffled hospital staff.

As for Tavington, the entire situation not only silenced and humbled him, but made it nearly impossible to sever him from Marigold's side. While Jake boasted of his arguments with the doctors to Giselle in the kitchen, they sat at close proximity on Marigold's couch in front of the roaring fire.

"You led the dragoons to victory in all of those battles and still couldn't gain Lord Cornwallis' approval? Why?" Marigold repositioned her head on his chest.

After making sure that neither Jake or Giselle could see, Tavington cradled Marigold's head in one hand and stroked her hairline with the other. "I believe," he whispered, grinning as she shut her eyes and nuzzled into his touch, "that no man could ever gain his approval. Unless, of course, that man was a Great Dane!" They shared a brief laugh. Being able to look at his struggles from a humorous angle was a new development; something that he had undoubtedly learned from Marigold and her small but fierce support system.

"That's right he had pooches. Well, I think the real question is what did they think of you?"

"They were barking mad about me, of course, just like your Moxie," he joked. Although in truth, he'd never paid much attention to anything other than his own tact whenever he and Cornwallis conferred.

Jake's work phone sounded loudly from the kitchen and there was a shift in atmosphere. He exchanged a word or two with Giselle before crossing to the living room. Marigold and Tavington remained still. Surely, they would be susceptible to ridicule if they were caught in one another's arms.

"Okay, Concierge Tiddledywinks! Hands where I can see 'em!" Giselle's deliberate (and let's be honest- ridiculous) butchering of Tavington's name had clearly caught on.

Tavington followed his order with a sigh, but Marigold remained where she was. This was out of defiance, in part, but she was also too content to move. The heavy medicine that she had been prescribed was more out of precaution than anything. Releasing a gunshot victim without any form of painkillers wouldn't only come across as unusual, but negligent on the hospital's part. Jake and Giselle assumed the medication had knocked her out, but Marigold and Tavington had a secret. Even if Jake and Giselle knew, they wouldn't understand for surely this concept only existed in poetry. Very simply, his heartbeat and touch were the only drugs she needed. He alone brought her back to life and he alone would nurse her back to health.

"Is she out?" Jake asked, gracelessly perching on the couch's thick arm. When Marigold didn't move, he proceeded with his elaborate, pop-culture infused interrogation that only Officer Jake Casey could deliver. "Okay. Now, I can be unpleasant than pleasant or pleasant than unpleasant, take your pick." Tavington blinked. "Unpleasant than pleasant it is. I have to head downtown and clean up this shitstorm that my sister started when she refused to give a complete statement. Thanks to an eyewitness and some smudgy fingerprints, my hardworking boys and gals down at the station figured out that it was the Baako Brat on the sidewalk with the handgun. Don't look so confused, I'm sure they have Clue back in Merry Old England. Tim Curry was in the movie, for crying out loud!" His eyes dropped to Marigold and his glare softened. "Now that I think of it, I probably shouldn't mention "Clue" around Mare, she'll have you watching it on repeat and you'll be whistling a weird hybrid of "Sh-Boom" and "Shake, Rattle, n' Roll" for the next two weeks. Anywho. You're probably wondering how this involves you? Of course you are. See, Cadet Tumbleweed, my sister is a rare little jewel. She tricks herself into finding the good in shitty situations and shitty people. Even when in reality there isn't any good in them at all. If the Waterford Police weren't so ruthless with their investigations, that little weasel would have slipped right under our radar. You may be in the circle of trust right now… don't say you haven't seen "Meet the Parents" because that would make you a damned Martian… but if I ever discover that you are anything other than the perfect saint my sister believes you to be, I will have you flown to D.C., strapped to the strongest lie detector on the planet and my brother will single handedly extract every sin you've ever committed. Steal twenty bucks from your Daddy's wallet when you were five? We'll know. Popped your sister's gerbil in the microwave and blamed it on your snot-nosed baby brother? Gotcha. All that nasty crap you did at that state school fraternity to prove you were a Macho Macho Man? Mare has a well-loved Village People LP somewhere if you're ever in need of a brain bleed. Where was I? Oh, yeah. My bro-ha will have you writing about it in complete sentences with Max-Fischer-grade calligraphy-"

"Message received Jake," Marigold moaned, she could feel Tavington's heartbeat quicken and decided that he needed some mercy, "now tell him something pleasant and skedaddle."

Jake was obviously stumped. Not to mention, embarrassed that Marigold had outsmarted him.

"I don't know how you did it. Or what you did exactly. None of us do," Jake mumbled, looking at his sister lovingly. His thoughts were scattered, but seeing her as he spoke helped him along. "But you… thank you. That doesn't even come close. But- yes- thank you for staying with her today." He started to leave, but stopped in his tracks. The sharpness of this motion riled Moxie up and several seconds of adorableness ensued. "Oh, and Giselle is taking the guest room. You know, to make sure that Leopold stays on the couch. I want you upstairs, door locked, Moxie at the foot of your bed before the stroke of midnight, or you'll turn into a Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino, Missy! Can I get a 'sir, yes sir'!?"

They responded in unison and breathed a small sigh of relief when Jake left.

"He likes you." Marigold whispered, returning to comfort as Tavington's already strong embrace tightened.

Giselle stomped around in the kitchen for a while longer, draining Marigold's box of Franzia Sunset Blush bone dry. At exactly 11:55, she popped her curly head into the room and reiterated (with a light slur) Jake's instructions to the pair. Marigold had been lulled into a blissful doze and hardly stirred as Tavington carried her up the stairs and into her room.

"Moxie," he whispered as Marigold's loyal companion rolled into a ball at her feet, "I need you to watch over my Marigold tonight. Be her voice if anything out of the ordinary should happen." Unsurprisingly, Moxie gave a tiny blink and started to lick her paws. This would have to do.

Tavington spent the final minutes of the eleven o'clock hour in discomfort. He knew very well what had happened the last time he left Marigold's side. Funny as it sounds, he feared that she would be unable to function without him. This anxiety could be best described as parental. It was as if she had been born again that morning and leaving her alone was like leaving a newborn to sleep on its own on the other side of a darkened house. Before locking the door, the headlights of a passing car shot across her window. Tavington moved to shut the curtains, but Marigold stopped him.

"Don't. This is supposed to be our last clear night for a while."

He abandoned the window to kneel by her bedside, "Predicting the weather now, are we?"

She reached for his hand, giving it several tiny kisses between words, "No. Just another function of those magical cell phones that you see everyone carrying around."

"I'll surely have to obtain one," he said with a sideways grin. "You do have a lovely view of the stars from up here."

"Did you know," Marigold mused, "that starlight takes so long to reach the earth that most of the stars that are looking in on us right now have been dead for many, many years?"

"That sounds like the basis for a rather melancholy poem."

"Perhaps," she reached, reveling once more in the sensation of his heart against her hand, "or perhaps not. 237 years come January and here you are. Your beating heart against my hand is as real and unreal as every star in the sky. It's a miracle, William. Bittersweet, but a miracle nonetheless."

Of course, Giselle had to unravel the mood by stumbling through the doorway. "MareBear! OMG! It's your BFF Jill! What ever happened to Cingular, anyway?" She leaned against the wall. Moxie took her uncanny posture as an invitation to play and dashed across the room. "I just wanted to tell Creative Director Turntable that he is out past curfew and needs to return to the sofa-couch pronto."

"Thank you, Giselle," Marigold smiled, signaling for Moxie to return, "how about saving some of that razor sharp wit for tomorrow? Heaven knows, you're going to need it to teach high schoolers with a hangover."

An innocent kiss to the back of Marigold's hand slipped under Giselle's watch as they bid one another goodnight.

"Remember what I told you, Mox," Tavington whispered sternly before turning his gaze to Marigold, "until tomorrow, my beautiful one."

He hardly slept a wink that night. Half of his mind was preoccupied with listening for Moxie's bark while the other half battled against Giselle's snoring, the likes of which Gimli Son of Gloin himself would have envied. The sounds of cellphones were a regular occurrence in Marigold's home and Tavington was beginning to grow accustomed to them as well as their overall function, but they still made him jump when they went off. Shortly after the clock struck 5, Giselle's phone lit up. A repetitive snippet of Debbie Reynolds and Gene Kelly singing "Good Morning" filled the quiet space.

"Must be… 'Singing in the Rain', I believe," Tavington thought to himself, "no wonder these women share such a strong kinship."

Giselle's silhouette caught his attention in the next room. Like Marigold, she was thin as a rake, but her slept-on curls made her look like the distant cousin of one of those rolls of cotton candy on a stick that you can find at just about any theme park. She patted down her unruly locks and headed for the kitchen, phone in hand.

"Hiya, Hotstuff," she said into the receiver, "yeah, he slept on the couch. No funny business here."

Tavington exhaled slightly as he watched Giselle's peculiar rampage through Marigold's cupboards.

"God, yes. I would love that," Giselle continued, placing her hands on her hips, "all I'm finding over here is an Aeropress, espresso beans and legions of loose-leaf teas. The flower-petal-y kinds, not the normal ones. Those Portlanders turned that girl into a full-blown "Put-a-Bird-on-It" hipster, I swear. You know she damn near cussed out the poor clerk at Michael's for not having more birdhouse making classes? Hey, Hugh Jackman! Yoo-hoo!" She waved Tavington down. "Since I know you're chomping on the bit to check on your little chickadee, why don't you run upstairs and ask her if she wants a macchiato?"

She didn't have to ask twice. On top of the anticipation of seeing Marigold again, Tavington was more than ready to escape from Giselle's vile conversation on "that cell phone contraption". As soon as he cracked the door open, Moxie tore through the house and gave Giselle her typical (noisy) greeting. Marigold was on her side, sound asleep. Her positioning indicated that she'd drifted off while watching the display of stars through her bedroom window. He knew that sleep was a rare commodity in the fast-paced world that Marigold lived in. To disturb her peaceful slumber would be wicked, so he decided to grant her the rare gift of being able to awaken on her own.

"Miss Casey is going to sleep in today, she's still rather shaken from yesterday's events." Tavington explained to Giselle who was clearly displeased.

"Well, she'd better be up before noon. Jake and I are taking extended lunch breaks so the four of us- you heard me- can have a little chat with Principal Ballard. No macchiato for Mare." With a beep, she placed her phone face down on the kitchen table and sat. Tavington followed suit.

"Miss Casey's employer won't grant her a single day of rest? Even after…?"

"Now that I have you alone…" Giselle hoisted Moxie into her lap. This would have been normal if Moxie were a smaller breed. Of course, Tavington fought back a laugh. True, he fed them scraps from his table, but if Cornwallis had done anything like this with Jupiter or Mars, word would spread and King George's laughter would have traveled in echoes across the proverbial "pond" for many years.

Although her tone was fierce, it was difficult to take any semblance of words seriously that were delivered between a large collie's ears. As Giselle spoke, Moxie looked up at Tavington, wearing her usual smile and panting quickly. "I want to run something by you. That girl pours her heart and soul into everything she does and would give the pretty little knitted cardigan off of her back for any poor bastard that she meets. In return for her kindness, life drags her through the mud on a daily basis. She wakes up lonely, goes about her day lonely and goes to bed lonely. The only thing keeping her afloat other than Jake, Moxie and I is that gloriously tenacious little attitude of hers. She wants you in her life. As something more than a passerby, but as a constant. I don't know why, but I can tell. If you want to be her beau without receiving daily hell from Jake and I, you are going to have to put in the effort and become something more than a couch surfer in her ex-husband's flannel. What am I saying? We're still gonna give you hell, anyway." She took a deep breath and removed her wallet from one of her various reusable craft store totes. "Now that I've gotten that off of my chest, here is fifty dollars. Jake will kill me if he knows, so don't tell him. You have about five minutes to get washed up. You're coming with us this morning."

Politely, Tavington refused. But this didn't faze Giselle in the slightest. She stretched herself across the table, stuck the bill in his pocket and gave his chair a hard kick. He understood that she was trying to be helpful in her own peculiar way, but galivanting around town with Giselle and Jake while Marigold was asleep was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Madame, I must protest. If Miss Casey awakes to find that I am gone, won't she think…"

Giselle held up her finger and flipped her phone over on the table. "Good thinking. I'll send her a text explaining that you haven't bailed on her. Now, brush your fangs, do whatever you have to do. I'll meet you on the porch in five."

He rose tentatively. "You mean to say that you can predict the weather and send hand written messages through the house with those glass notepads?" Giselle said nothing and only stared in annoyance. Clearly, she knew what was best for Marigold and it was for this reason that Tavington decided to trust her although it left him with a heavy heart.

Giselle was still awaiting Jake's arrival when Tavington stepped outside. He looked slightly disheveled but would effortlessly pass as one of the more attractive men in Waterford nonetheless. He sat beside Giselle on the tiny step and grinned at her, awkwardly. Yet again, she reached into a nearby tote and grabbed something for Tavington. This time, it was a small, elastic band. Inevitably, it had several pieces of glitter on it, but they weren't too noticeable.

"Put that hair back. The Fabio look won't do you any good where you're headed…"

"May I ask," he struggled with the elastic momentarily, "where I am headed exactly?"

"We're going to drop you off on Main Street. It's four blocks away, but I suggest paying attention as we drive so you can walk home. There's a cute little thrift store on the corner that opens early. I want you to pick out something nice to wear to Coffee n' San-tea. And some other articles of clothing that aren't Henry's because… you're embarrassing yourself, Boy. While you were getting ready, I pulled some strings and got you an interview with Tess at 8. Marigold and I used to wash dishes for her in high school and she'll more than likely hire you on the spot because she loves the stuffin' out of both of us. Just don't be late. I'd suggest getting a haircut first, but there's no saying how long it would take to rid you of that… Brillo Pad," with the way Giselle's hair looked at the moment, she wasn't exactly in the best position to pass judgement, but Tavington held his tongue beautifully. "We'll be coming for you and Mare at noon and if you're a workin' man the next time I see you, I'll personally see to it that you are properly cellphone'd. I'll also teach you how to use it so you can text Mare sweet nothings from your dishwashing station all day long. Are we jiggy?"

"I must confess, Madame, I haven't felt so susceptible to peer pressure since I was a young boy in Liverpool. But if the tasks that you have given me will make Marigold happy, there is simply no way that I can decline." The sleek black outline of Jake's car slipped into his periphery. This scene still made him a bit jumpy.

"Don't tell me I'll have to give you a driving lesson, too." Giselle moaned, collecting half of her totes and failing to conceal a smile when Tavington assisted her with the rest.

"You mean… in order to learn how to operate a horseless carriage? Must I?"

Giselle turned around on the lawn and belted out an astonishingly loud laugh. It was truly amazing, she was almost as amusing hungover as she was drunk. "We'll have to borrow Mare's crappy Subaru because there's no way you can handle the raw power of my minivan!"

As she stumbled into the passenger seat of Jake's car, Tavington wrestled with the handle on the back door. He could hear Jake and Giselle arguing over why he was impeding on their time together. Jake was just about ready to step on the gas and send him flying across the lawn when Giselle hopped out and opened the door for him.

The motion of the car was just as sickening as he remembered it. The scatterbrained argument that was taking place at the front of the cabin made matters worse for poor Tavington. He watched the neighborhood filled with tiny bungalows just like Marigold's whirring by and suffered terrible whiplash every time Jake came to a stop. Perhaps learning how to maneuver one of these monstrosities would benefit him after all; nobody could ever rival his skills as an equestrian and Jake clearly had no idea of what he was doing.

"Would you mind putting on another record, Mr. Casey?" He asked politely as Giselle turned up Sam Hunt's lively track, "House Party" to an ear-piercing volume.

Jake pushed Giselle's hand off of the stereo system and pulled a glistening CD from its narrow storage space. It wasn't much of an improvement. Jake tried and failed to rap along with Toby Keith's "I Wanna Talk About Me" and continued to swat Giselle's hand away periodically. Finally, the aggression ceased and they both settled on intertwining their fingers on top of the hand break. Clearly, a romance was blossoming between them that was just as strange and unique as they were. Tavington found comfort in the possibility that the chaotic rise and fall of emotions yesterday brought not only he and Marigold closer, but Jake and Giselle as well.

As the car slowed to a stop, Tavington realized that they were no longer in a neighborhood, but on a quaint, shop-lined street that was built on a sloping hill. Many of the shops were closed, but he could see a glow coming from the aforementioned secondhand store and its neighbor, Coffee n' San-tea.

"Okay, Leopold, this is where we leave you," Giselle chimed as she clicked off the locks, "Remember, your interview is at eight so keep an eye on the clocktower. Marigold lives at 17 Foxglove if you get lost. I doubt you will, it's a straight shot if you follow the park. Any questions?"

He had countless questions, to be sure. For the sake of appearing together, however, he shook his head and fidgeted with the door handle. Once it opened, he stepped onto the street. This was a strange sensation for the otherwise fearless Tavington. Navigating the sleepy, walkable downtown district of Waterford, South Carolina would prove a simple task for just about anybody. But in this moment, he felt as if he was riding into battle. His nerves and imagination were conversing as quickly and nonsensically as Jake and Giselle were on the car ride over. He considered everything that could go wrong in this strange new space. But at the same time, he longed to master it. The idea of becoming an asset to Marigold's hometown led him to a rapturous state. He felt strangely excited about piecing together the materials of his new identity at the secondhand store. He'd never dreamt of washing dishes for wages in his life, but the idea of bringing his earnings home to Marigold set his heart ablaze. He would surely succeed. He was Colonel William Tavington, after all! What could possibly go wrong?


	8. Anyone for French Toast?

By the time the clocktower chimed in the eight o'clock hour, Tavington was as ready for his interview as he would ever be. He was still incredibly fond of Henry's blue flannel and selected a handful of outfits that were similar in style along with a handsome blazer made of dark, thick material for the colder days ahead. The flirtatious young thrift store clerk ensured him that a solid black button down and yet another pair of darkened jeans would be sufficient attire for his impending interview. According to her, he could step into any shop on the street in sweatpants and be hired on the spot. He hardly knew what that meant, but thanked her for her encouragement nevertheless.

He felt confident during his brisk walk to the café, but found that his confidence was deflated tenfold when he met Tess. She was a friendly enough woman. Clothed in a cherry print frock with a pristine hairdo of box-dye black victory rolls, she was certainly an oddity even when placed against everyone Tavington had met in 2017 thus far. Tess seemed delighted to hear that he was courting Marigold (compliments of Giselle's big mouth, of course). But there was something about her, her mannerisms and intonations, the places in her speech where she inserted certain pauses and above all, her terrifyingly familiar eyes that made Tavington feel as though he was speaking to a ghost.

"I must admit, Mr. Thompson, when Giselle told me that you'd be a good candidate for a dishwasher, I thought you'd be a teenybopper. Or at least a college kid! Mare was never one to be a cradle robber. You must be, what? 30-something?" She leaned back in her office chair, chomping on the eraser at the end of a yellow #2 pencil. This unusual tick had become a frequent occurrence throughout their conversation.

"It's Tavington, Ma'am. 37. Does it really matter?"

"Tavington, you say?" The chomping commenced. "Well, that's a misfortune. Did you know that my great, great, great, great…" yet another chomp, "great… whatever… grandpa shish-kebab'd the crap out of a fella named Tavington during the American Revolution? Pretty rad, huh?"

He narrowed his eyes, contemplating which remark to respond to first. He'd silently suffered defeat over and over again after wagering that America had gained its independence after all. Still hearing the name, "American Revolution" struck a personal chord with him. Especially when paired with such a crude recount of his defeat. This had to be some sort of a cruel trial. God's own wicked experiment in which he would test Tavington's devotion to Marigold. He breathed deeply.

"You must be a Martin." A borderline wicked, sideways smirk slipped out. He cursed himself instantly. How could he be so tactless?

To his complete surprise, Tess threw her pencil on the floor and started to clap her hands in amusement and delight. "Well, what a shocker those fellas would have if they could see us now! Engaged in a civilized conversation! You're probably going to think that I'm some sort of a nerd, but you'll find that all of Waterford is obsessed with local history. Henry. Marigold's Henry-"

"Oh, no," Tavington thought to himself, "not another talker…"

"He was a British fella just like you! He was so interested in the area that he relocated, too! You know you look just like him?! Old Tavington, that is. Not Henry. Between you, me, and the hat rack, my kitchen is a cornucopia of pointy objects, so no funny business or history will have to repeat itself." She reclined and, you guessed it, plucked another pencil from her cluttered desk. "Don't give me that vacant expression, Billy! Smile! I'll see you tomorrow at opening. Bright and early!"

He should have been pleased with himself, but so much about Tess had made his blood boil already. He used this opportunity to put to the test another little trick that he'd learned from Marigold- focusing on the good instead of the bad. For one, it made perfect sense that Tess would be friendly with his Marigold. Giselle, too. By all means, the three of them shared a talent for masking just about anything with the nonsensical.

"Well, Billy?" Tess asked, placing her hands in her lap if not for a moment. "Do you have any questions for me before you bolt?"

Certainly, he could have asked more about Tess' lineage; but meditating on Marigold always granted him a keen sense of serenity. He used his final question, perhaps foolishly, to gain more knowledge about what he cared for most in the world. After all, he knew very little about her past and the relationship that she had with this tiny town that he was just now becoming a part of. "Giselle tells me that Marigold practically grew up in this lovely café. May I ask what it was like having her around all these years?"

A tiny chomp. This was undoubtedly one of the more original questions that she'd heard from a prospective dish washer, but Tess couldn't help but grin as she remembered her history with young Marigold Casey. "A pleasant hell. Mare is a very spirited girl and stubborn as a mule. She learned early on about my affinity for Rockabilly. So, we had a little game that went on until well, until she was old enough to start working for me, really. She'd learn a song a week. Elvis, Johnny Cash, Bill Haley- you name it! Every Friday, she'd pop that cute little head through the back door and start wailing away. You know she has perfect pitch?! If she got the lyrics right, and trust me, she always did, she'd have her pick of pastries. Jake and Jack got wind of it and tried a few times but well- have you ever run a live cat through a washing machine?"

Tavington shook his head, unsure of what that meant or where she was going with it.

"Neither have I. But if I ever did, I'd betcha a pretty penny it would sound a lot like the Casey Brothers' stab at Buddy Holly. So," As Tess shifted in her chair, Tavington could see the bottom of what appeared to be a bird-shaped tattoo at the base of her dress' right capped sleeve. "you're taking Mare to Twist of Skate this Saturday, I assume? My brother, Benny would lose his mind to see the living spit of Colonel William Tavington walking through his door."

"We haven't discussed such an outing," he considered using Marigold's current status to get himself out of meeting this 'Benny' character, but after recalling her pleas for privacy yesterday, decided that it would not be gentlemanly, "what does it entail?"

"Shit! How long have you two been going out!? She quit roller derby when she left for college, but hasn't missed a single one of our monthly shindigs. Except for the one right after Henry R-U-N-N-O-F-T but that was to be expected. It's really just an open rink with live music. Super low-key, but Mare always gets really into it. You know what would be cute? If you asked her to go and made it seem completely spontaneous!"

The idea of attending events with Marigold on his arm had certainly crossed his mind. Furthermore, the notion of expanding his knowledge of Waterford and surprising her with how much he had learned and accomplished this morning only added fuel to the fire. Graciously, he thanked Tess for her suggestion even though he would surely have to do some research to find out what a roller derby and open rink were exactly.

Believe it or not, this wouldn't be the only time that Tess would inspire Tavington this morning. As he was exiting her office, he passed a large bulletin board that was filled with upcoming local events. He hunted through it eagerly for a potential first outing with Marigold. Preferably something that they were both familiar with. A live performance of one of her favorite "operas", perhaps? He was completely engrossed in his search when a sound (and smell) from the nearby kitchen stole his attention away.

"Smells delightful! One of Marigold's beloved pastries, I assume?" He asked Tess as she passed him in the hallway.

Tess looked stunned. "You're joking, right? Okay. Since you're part of the family now, I'll let you in on a little secret." She grabbed Tavington harshly by the wrist and dragged him into the industrial grade kitchen.

"What are we looking at here, Ma'am?" To Tavington, it looked more like a torture chamber than a kitchen, but he left that part out.

"Observe." Tess droned, mocking an 'awestruck' tone. "Louie." She gestured to a portly man with an eyepatch in white chef's attire and proceeded to narrate the obscure ritual that he was engaging in. "The trick is to spin the eggs in a nylon just like so. Fifteen spins each. No more, no less. Once they are properly spun, you break them with the handle of a teaspoon. Not a tablespoon. Not a knife, not a fork. A teaspoon. Don't ask me how it improves the flavor, it just does. Then," her eyes widened, "the pie tin. Now, some people think that the pie tin makes the flavor metallic. To that, I always tell them they haven't met the right pie tin. And they haven't met Louie. Stop looking at me. Look at Louie. Watch how he measures the cinnamon in a thimble and the vanilla extract in a bottlecap. Such artistry! The whisk comes next. All of this is in preparation for this glorious concoction's marriage with… the brioche. The brioche takes a little bath. Five seconds for each side." As Louie flung the dripping brioche into a nearby frying pan pausing only to direct an obscene hand gesture at Tess. "And Louie can vouch for me, can't you, Louie!? The trick to the perfect piece of French toast is the sprinkling of what?"

"Powdered sugar and cinnamon." Louie boomed in a voice so forceful and low that the pots and pans surrounding him seemed to shake. He placed the finished product on a napkin and handed it to Tavington with what might have been a grin, but it was difficult to tell.

"Make one of those for Marigold and she'll love you forever." Tess gave Tavington's shoulder a friendly shove. French as this strange breed of toast was, it tasted just as delightful as it had smelled to him earlier.

Ten o'clock was nearing when Tavington finally stepped out of Coffee n' San-tea, Louie's delectable creation in hand. Main Street was no longer the quiet little strip of road that he had left behind earlier, but a bustling and lively spectacle. He could see the park that Giselle had spoken of and an orderly little ensemble of neighborhoods that the lakeside pathway looped towards. Making it home to Marigold seemed more than feasible. During his walk, he passed a small neighborhood market. The remainder of the funds that Giselle had lent him went towards an eye-catching bouquet of daisies and (you guessed it) marigolds that he ordered from the market's florist and the ingredients for the recipe that he had just learned from his (very) unlikely new friend.

…

Marigold sat on the shower floor, meditating on nothing else but the lines of water that were racing across her skin. Although she had finished her routine washing and the meticulous cleaning of her post-operative wound ten minutes ago, she decided on waiting for the hot water to run out on its own. Normally, she would never do this and was nearly religious about water conservation, but hiding away from the rest of the world was more than appealing this morning. Every time that a thought of Tavington or better yet, questions pertaining to why he had left and where he had gone arose in her mind, she forced herself back into meditation. The water was soothing, steady and warm. In the back of her mind, it was a simulation of his heartbeat. Even the innocent sound that it made as it clapped against the tile floor was a ghost that had travelled across the centuries from the fleeting moment they had shared beside the stream. The mere thought of his kiss was electrifying- a shock to the heart, a resuscitation. It brought her back to the present. She tucked her legs into her chest and buried her head between her knees, trying to escape this vision.

"You are smarter than this," she whispered to herself and the water as it escaped down the drain, "you are smarter and stronger than this."

As the water chilled, she rose and shut the faucet off with force. If it hadn't been for the stick of incense that had filled the room with its fragrance while she showered, Marigold would have realized it sooner. Quickly, she wicked the moisture out of her long strands of hair and wrapped up in her white, fluffy towel. Had her shower been quicker, the fresh-out-of-the-dryer towel would have still been warm and Marigold would have undergone the peculiar ritual that Giselle mentioned previously. Due to her distress and the disturbance she sensed in the living room, Marigold forewent her first warm, fuzzy towel snuggle in a long time. The smoke alarm had only just started chirping as she headed down the stairs to investigate the intrusive burning smell. Billows of smoke were pouring out of the kitchen and into the living room.

What she managed to see amidst the shroud of smoke was your common "be furious now, laugh about it later" scenario. Tavington, having just extinguished a scorched piece of what was originally intended to be French toast, was stomping frantically on a blazing, floral hand towel. Presumably he had used it to fan the frying pan after the toast caught fire, but Marigold could only speculate. Meanwhile, Moxie stood on her hindlegs at the kitchen's central island. She was lapping up a puree of egg yolks, vanilla extract and cinnamon in a metal pie tin that Tavington was originally using to prepare said "French toast". After a quick assessment of the fire itself, Marigold raced into the guest bathroom, grabbed the fire extinguisher and managed to save the hand towel and Tavington's sleeve in one clean sweep. She then managed to open every one of the downstairs windows and click off the smoke detector, all without losing her towel.

The smoke departed on the cross breeze and Marigold and Tavington faced one another, awkwardly. Her towel provided little coverage and didn't leave much for the imagination. Droplets of water still clung to her pale shoulders and her face was clean and soft without its usual dusting of powder and blush. He was already infatuated and had already imagined on countless occasions the sweet, uncharted land that was now only partially concealed by a single piece of fabric. In short, he couldn't look away.

"Forgive me," Tavington focused on her eyes after the simultaneous discovery that he had been staring too long.

Marigold approached him and he reached, how could he not? As his fingers traced her collarbone, she pulled her hair aside, revealing her white neck and shoulders that appeared, like to rest of her, to be begging for his caress. The smell of her damp, newly washed hair was sweeter than any flower.

"Would you call me Annabelle on accident?" Marigold watched him closely. She had seen this look from only a handful of men before, but was fully aware of his desire. "Because I am not Annabelle. I am not made of glass. And I am not a virgin. Does that bother you?"

He paused, mid-touch. "I'm not sure."

Her eyes stayed locked on his as she moved away, calculating his change of expression. "Don't look at me like I'm some tease. This is my house, my city, my century for crying out loud! Believe it or not, William Tavington, I am a lady. If you want to have this conversation with me again, I will require something better than 'I am not sure'. Do you understand me?"

He was confused by her sudden aggression and it showed.

"What are we, William? What is this? Because it is confusing the hell out of me. Can you at least tell me what your intentions are so I can start mapping this madness out once and for all?"

"I want to be… your beau." He said, recalling Giselle's earlier phrasing. The words seemed strange and unnatural on his tongue.

Marigold's face lit up. She wanted to remain coy, but couldn't possibly. Laughter followed. "My beau?"

"I wish to court you, Miss Casey." He clarified.

Marigold crossed her arms, quietly enjoying this. He wasn't off the hook just yet. "I see. There are certain rules of courtship that one must follow?"

"There are countless rules, Miss Casey. But when you consider the uniqueness of our situation, many of them become… misshapen."

"Touché." Her mouth and nose twisted sideways. Tavington found this adorable and yet again, she could tell. "But when you consider," she narrowed her eyes, readying herself to use his own words against him, "the uniqueness of our situation. Unique being a tragic understatement. Wouldn't you say that leaving this morning without telling me beforehand hardly adhered to our own… unique… rules of courtship?"

"You didn't receive the tick… tip… tra- message from Giselle? That she composed for you from her… cellphone?"

True, Tavington's adoration for Marigold had been noticeable earlier. But she was becoming a hopelessly open book as well. The pursuit of a straight face was slowly killing her. "It was on the charger. Unlike Giselle my cellphone and I aren't joined at the hip."

The room was almost entirely cleared out now. Marigold caught a glimpse of the bright bouquet of autumn florals waiting for her on the countertop.

"So, you snuck out with Giselle this morning to purchase the makings for French toast, some new clothes… nice ponytail, by the way… and flowers. Because you want to be my… beau?" She spoke slowly, hoping to unravel her confusion with words.

"Giselle arranged an interview for me at the café. With another, what was the term you used... "colorful character" named Tess. I am now employed, Miss Casey. Everything else is mere embellishment. But yes, I want nothing more than to assist you. Financially and emotionally because-"

"-you want to be my… beau," Marigold intervened with a nod. She turned and started a feverish hunt through her cupboard. After deciding on a glass mason jar, she filled it with water and placed the bouquet inside.

Tavington could only stare. Whether she was declining or accepting his offer of courtship was secondary to the fact that this was the strangest way to go about doing either in well… the history of courtship. He moved his finger across the mason jar and beamed. "Seven tiny stars abandoned heaven's glory to live inside a jar…"

"What was that?" Marigold shooed Moxie away from the countertop and proceeded to clean the area.

"Miss Casey, please, the terrible mess before you was my doing and therefore I am responsible-"

"-seven tiny stars?" She interrupted, yet again. "Except they weren't stars at all, they were-"

"Fireflies, yes." Silence. "Don't worry about cleaning, Miss Casey."

The memory of Annabelle's notebook filled Marigold's mind. "Which to them was a palace made entirely of glass…" as their eyes met, infinite questions seemed to surface, "I understand what you're doing. At least, I think I understand. But there's no way that we can approach this like a normal relationship."

Tavington reached across the counter, removing the roll of paper towels that Marigold was planning on using to clean with. "Get yourself ready for the day, Miss Casey. Try not to worry about anything else."

They remained motionless, if only for a moment. The coldness of the cross breeze had only just become noticeable to Marigold. She remembered her nakedness, her vulnerability and made leave. At least, she started to. Before she reached the staircase, she turned back. Out of the countless questions that they shared, one answer was clear in her mind.

"William?"

He was right where she had left him, wiping the surface of the countertop. Marigold pulled him in and gently, very gently kissed the smooth, newly shaven skin of his cheek before whispering in his ear, "I wish to be courted by you."


	9. Lowering the Mask

Everything about Waterford High School was new, crisp and pristine and its interior was just as sleek and modern as its exterior. Glass geometric windows accompanied by brightly colored armchairs lined the hallways leading to Principal Ballard's office. Marigold and Giselle led the way through the glistening corridors with their male counterparts following less confidently behind them. They allowed momentary delays here and there in order for Tavington to catch up. Aside from coughing frantically as he inhaled the glass-cleaner-infused air and sneezing in response to the particles that rose from the newly carpeted floors with every step, he was irrevocably drawn in by the brilliant checkering of stained glass that lined the windows of the administrative office.

"Marigold!" He called from several paces behind. "Marigold! Inigo Jones himself would be proud of this architecture! And, Heavens! The last time that I saw windows of such-"

"-cool your jets, Captain Tasselbum!" Jake moaned, pulling him through the sharp edges of the glass doorway.

Marigold stopped and turned, allowing Giselle and Jake to blather away at the unsuspecting receptionist. "Let's grab a seat by the windows and you can tell me about Inigo Jones, okay?"

The pair cozied up in the corner and continued what would have been an enriching conversation if Tavington hadn't caught a glimpse of the young man leaving the principal's office. Marigold, who was gradually getting better at reading the endless series of calms and storms that lived inside of Tavington's eyes, was immediately compelled to direct her attention across the room. At first, she thought that it was Baako that he had seen and her nerves knotted up almost immediately. But all was well when she realized who it was.

"What did you do this time?" She taunted the lanky young troublemaker from her chair.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, Miss Casey." He approached them and gave her a charming grin that Tavington could read like a book. "The good news is, you'll be seeing me at South every Tuesday through Sunday until I graduate. Ballard thinks that he's punishing me, but between you and I…" the young man paused, openly baffled by the way Tavington was staring at him, "who's this?"

Marigold smiled pleasantly. Dealing with young Tommy Martin was something of an artform that she had mastered over many years. The relentless case of puppy love that he held for her dated back to her dishwashing days at his aunt's café. "Tommy, William. William, Tommy. He's a former honor's student and will surely be one again once I'm through with him." An uncomfortable pause. "That is your cue to shake hands."

Tommy threw him the most intimidating glare that he could muster. With the silver line of braces peeking out between his lips, it came across as more precious than anything. "Of course, William! Your… cousin, I assume."

"William is my boyfriend." Marigold explained calmly. She had to spell things out for this one. "And he just started working for Tess this morning. You'll likely be seeing a lot of one another very soon. Tommy washes dishes after school. Or at least, he used to before he received his life sentence to South. I want you to be nice to William, okay? That means no Silly String or Nerf Blaster bombardments. Do I make myself clear?"

"Stings like a bee, doesn't she?" The blue-eyed boy smiled, only a fraction, at Tavington.

He'd silently prided himself in being able to transcend the similarities between Tess and Benjamin Martin, but this was almost too much…

Tavington understood fully that Marigold was an intelligent woman going in, but he was gradually beginning to realize the extent of her intelligence. He could tell that she was parsing everything about this conversation and had sensed the disconnect- perhaps even before anyone else did. She removed a narrow, silver wristwatch from the sleeve of her favorite yellow bumblebee print cardigan and checked the time. It appeared she would be able to get Tavington off of whatever hook he had landed himself on. For the time being, anyway.

"Passing period is in two minutes, I assume you have some hardcore socializing to do before the tardy bell rings, hm?"

Once Tommy headed off to class, Marigold steered their conversation back to the windows, much to Tavington's relief. She gathered that Tavington was merely uncomfortable being around the flirtatious little boy and she longed lighten up the remainder of their waiting time. That being said, he sensed a change in Marigold's demeanor as the group shuffled into Principal Ballard's office. He knew that she wasn't looking forward to recounting the shooting and hearing that there were virtually no developments during the hunt for Tristan left a heavy feeling in the air. Darren Baako was being held at a juvenile detention center and while the possibility of Marigold being confronted by him again were slim to none, a great deal of the meeting was spent listening to Jake and Principal Ballard debating safety precautions for Marigold, the staff and the student body as a whole.

During something of a lull, Principal Ballard turned to Tavington. The Waterford Police treated him as no more than a witness but, as people often do when they are desperate for answers, fabrications were spun. His story was both lost in translation in some areas and blown out of proportion in others. The result? He was becoming known as something of a local hero. Should the story of Marigold's full recovery ever come to the surface, he would probably have a pastry named after him at Coffee n' San-tea.

"Miss Casey is an asset to our school," the heavily moustached principal said, sans expression, "she's not your traditional teacher by any standards… but she understands that there's always back door to success. And the kids love her! If there is any way that we can repay you for chasing Baako off the other night…"

Marigold stole a quick glance at her handsome new "beau". His eyes, clear and blue as ever seemed pained by this praise. There was no way she could have known what Tavington had done when he arrived at the scene. For all she knew, he had chased him off. He deserved whatever accolades he received from the community in her eyes. The guilt that continued to plague him was a strange and powerful force, it prevented him from accepting that he had done anything notable. He lowered his eyes and nodded.

The remainder of the meeting was very hard on Marigold. After stating repeatedly that she would not be taking time off, Principal Ballard and Jake bartered her independence. She did not expect the statement that Giselle made against her ability to return to life as she knew it and reacted to it as if it were a slap to the face. There was simply no denying that Giselle knew Marigold better than anyone else in the room did, even her own brother. She had watched Marigold intently all afternoon and noticed subtle changes- shortcomings in her strength that hadn't been there before. She crossed her arms across her chest just a little too tightly as they walked through the school, the usual spring in her step was switched out for a lethargic shuffle but what broke Giselle's heart the most was watching Marigold as she fought to hide the constant tremble that her body was overcome with every time she was left alone.

"If those are the conditions under which I can return," Marigold forced herself to say, "I only ask that my brother be assigned as my escort and nobody else. Except for maybe William when his schedule permits." She held his hand tightly under the table and all was well. If only for a moment.

"This is only a precaution, Miss Casey. If it's any consolation, it is also for the benefit of Tristan Stone as well. Apart from home and school, South was the only community that she actively participated in. A sharp set of eyes in the area can only help matters."

Marigold nodded, finding comfort in the feeling of Tavington's thumb as It gently massaged her knuckles. "I'm still not sold on the idea, but if it might help us find Tristan…"

"It's decided, then. You will return to work tomorrow evening. I will have letters prepared for your students asking them to honor your privacy and informing them of Officer Casey's presence for the next month or so." Principal Ballard's mouth or rather, his moustache, shot upwards in a smile. "I'm not pretending to know everything that happened the other day, and I know you don't want me to blow this out of proportion, Miss Casey, but I just wanted to say on behalf of everyone here at Waterford High, we'd be lost without you."

She forced a smile. People never seem to show appreciation for others until after they are gone. Apparently, having a brush with death is the same way. You see, she'd never thought of herself as an asset to any school she'd ever taught at. She'd always existed on an interstitial plane between ignored and partially acknowledged for her avant-garde methods. As her smile transitioned into a nod, Tavington gave her hand a tiny squeeze. If anything, it helped to know that he was there.

…

The autumn sky was brilliant and blue for most of the day. As the evening hours drew near, black storm clouds began to cover the horizon. Marigold, Tavington and Moxie were at the park when this subtle change occurred. Moxie was reluctant to end her game of fetch and paid no mind to the impending storm. Tavington seemed to be on the same brainwave as the playful canine and continued to throw the stick that Moxie had plucked during their stroll past the lake. Marigold contrasted their merry mood. The changes in her work life were troubling her, yes, but something happened during their time at the park that troubled her further. While collecting reading material for their evening excursion, she'd half-willingly slipped Tavington's biography into her tote. After all, Henry had instructed her to read it. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get it out of the way…

She predicted what most of the pages would reveal with ease- an eager young dragoon with a hunger for victory. The aggression that he showed in and off the battle field should have come as no surprise. Marigold found solace in stealing occasional glances of Tavington as he chased Moxie amidst the falling leaves. With a smile so genuine, he seemed in these moments to be a gentle soul, incapable of terrorizing anyone or anything. The tactics that he used on civilians were the most startling. As Marigold learned of his affinity for burning buildings, a nightmarish vision entered her mind. She closed her eyes tightly, allowing it to transport her across time. Without any explanation, she knew that she was looking through Annabelle's eyes yet again.

These dreams that she had always started with pain. But this time the pain was different. Marigold knew that bullets felt foreign and cold as they travelled beneath her skin. There was nothing foreign about what she felt now because it came from within; a rise and a plummet in her chest all at once- grief. Her throat, dry and raw, had pleaded not moments ago to the man in front of her. If only she knew what she had said.

"My order stands."

She knew his voice. She knew his form even from behind the curtain of smoke that separated them. Shots rang out in the distance, each one pierced her soul and deepened her grief. In her mind, she could see the faces of two young girls and the pain increased. The sensation of their loss, whoever those young girls were, was so intense that it seemed to frighten away even the smoke itself. The curtain parted, revealing his face. On it, she saw a stunning transition from malice to remorse. In the corner of his eye, she saw the birth of a small, but undeniable tear. The sound of the rustling pages relieved Marigold of this brief vision. She looked down, realizing that a passing breeze had caused her to lose her place.

"To love him is to love a man behind the mask," she quietly reminded herself, closing the book and placing it on the ground, "to save him is to love him mask and all."

A rumble of thunder echoed across the sky. Marigold could see Moxie submit to stillness as she listened. Tavington used this opportunity to sweep the stick from the leafy ground and give it a final toss. He removed the dark hair that had collected on his face and started to venture towards the tree that Marigold was standing under.

"I believe I've successfully tired Moxie out for the next week," he stated with a prideful grin. "How was your book, my love?"

Marigold moved several paces closer, meeting him just beneath the golden canopy. Several leaves tumbled silently from above, landing on their shoulders. Their faces had paled in the cold, their bodies gravitated towards one another in search of warmth. Marigold mediated on Annabelle's words for a moment longer. Whoever he had ordered the execution of in their conjoined memory had been dear to her and yet, Annabelle forgave him. Annabelle loved him.

"Say it again," Marigold requested, embracing him just tight enough that his heartbeat filled her ears.

"Say what again?"

Without letting go, Marigold straightened her back and pressed her forehead to his. Her fingers slipped in and out of his soft, windswept hair.

"My love?" He repeated the phrase back to her twice as a question and once following her confirmation.

She allowed her heart to swell, to grow into something greater than fear or distrust. As the emotion overcame her, Marigold held him closer. The wind, the thunder and the swirling leaves surrounded them like a tempest. Merely holding him in her arms would not be enough to keep her thoughts at bay. To love him in this moment despite everything that she had seen would require something else. Once their lips found one another, nothing else could touch them. Two-hundred-year-old longings are funny that way. The first contact was a tender invitation, the second an apology for making the other wait so long, and the third was nothing short of a two-sided surrender. Marigold allowed herself to let go and, if only for a moment, to be seduced by the warmth of his tongue and the desire that coursed through his powerful body like a current of electricity- but he was the one who needed saving, not her. Before temptation got the best of her, Marigold's kisses changed from lustful and deep to sweet, light strokes across his burning face.

"It's strange." Her whisper traveled across his lips, echoing through their handsome curvatures and ridges. His mouth seemed to her a tiny canyon that she longed to explore and lose herself inside over and over again. "I feel as though I have longed to do that my entire life."

"I believe you have, my love." Was his breathless response.

The wind barely had enough time to chill their lips before they surrendered to one another once more.

…

The storm was raging at full force when they arrived home. Moxie was so accustomed to having her paws toweled off after running through damp grass that she remained on the inside welcome mat. Tavington and Marigold were preoccupied, shedding their dampened outerwear and countering their shivers with a warm embrace against the front door.

"Heavens, you're an icicle!" Tavington laughed, pressing Marigold's fingers against his lips. "What ever am I going to do with you?"

She stroked his face, adoringly. "You won't be of much help seeing as you're an icicle, too! How about you get a fire started? I have some puppy paws to dry off…" One icy but satisfying peck to the lips later, they parted ways if not, temporarily.

What happened next could have easily been described as the finest evening either of them had ever known. True, bright flashes of lightning shot across the windows and mighty booms of thunder followed close behind- many of which shook the tiny bungalow's foundation and sent Moxie into a state of complete hysteria; but these things hardly dampened their mood. After Marigold slipped into her pajamas and Tavington changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants, they walked, barefoot into the kitchen. Marigold originally wanted to teach Tavington how to use a modern oven and stove and had barely removed a muffin tin from the cupboard when she noticed his fascination with a box of imported digestive biscuits from the U.K.

"Help yourself! They're machine processed and a little ahead of your time, but I've always enjoyed them." She beamed as he took a small bite and nodded in approval.

He then proceeded to peruse the rest of Marigold's collection of biscuits and related snack items. She joined him shortly after. This turned into the creation of a platter of crackers, cheeses, cured meats, olives and, of course, the makings for tea. Marigold also prepared a honey mint berry salad that Tavington fell in love with instantly. She was elated to learn just how similar their palletes were. The idea of never having to argue with another man again about her distaste for fast food or, in turn, being criticized for her love of lighter fare and homemade cuisines was nothing short of a dream. Once they were happily situated in front of the fireplace, they both selected an album to listen to and remained blissfully in one another's arms.

At around 10:30 or so, Tavington volunteered to clean the area. Of course, Marigold didn't allow him to do all of the work by himself and when they returned to the living room, they realized that Moxie had taken over the couch.

"Wait right here," Tavington whispered after silently mourning the loss of their cozy fireside nest. He shuffled through Marigold's small but eclectic record collection. When he found the one he sought, he put it on the turntable and laid down the needle.

"You're becoming a deep track guy." Marigold moved in and buried her head in his chest. "My God, I haven't heard this song in years."

"You approve?"

She held him closer, swaying softly to the beat. "Absolutely." Their eyes met. "I've always found the lyrics to be absolutely stunning. They're almost… the embodiment of perfect love." She smiled, bashfully.

"Would you care to dance with me?" He stepped aside, just long enough to bow lowly before returning to her embrace.

"We're probably going to knock over all of my furniture in the process."

"Well, the point of dancing," Tavington matched Marigold's clumsy sway, "and I don't mean proper, straight laced dancing, but real dancing… is to experience an increase in proximity. A union of two souls and a song. And when the two souls complement one another and the song, in turn, complements them… well. I'd say that if we stay close enough, your home furnishings will go unharmed. Do you know why I chose this song especially for you?" They exchanged smiles as she shook her head, "Because, Marigold, out of every song that I have listened to and learned from so far, this one truly casts a mirrored image of my heart. Perhaps if you truly believe that these words embody perfect love… my wicked, unworthy heart may be enough for you after all. I hear it and it's as if it were written with you in mind."

Marigold could feel her face turning red. She had glimpsed his vulnerability on several occasions, but never before had she heard it vocalized. "Actually," she said with a grin, escaping to comedy as always, "John Denver wrote it for his wife. That's why it's called 'Annie's Song'." She could see his smile falling slightly and regretted her response. "I'm sorry. I actually have an embarrassing connection with this song. Assuming I haven't already beaten your vision of it to death." With a nod, he urged her to continue. "There's this church in Charlestown that Giselle's cousin repurposed into a theatre way back when. We would go there for a three-week theatre camp every summer when we were in junior high. The building has these incredible stained-glass windows and even though it no longer serves the function of a church, visiting couples would sometimes hire a priest and rent out the facility for weddings. Giselle and I arrived several hours early for camp one year and ended up sitting in on a ceremony. All of the guests were enamored by the windows, but I was enamored by something else. As the bride walked down the aisle and towards her new life, there was a string quartet playing this song off to the side. After that, it was always my dream to make that exact same walk. The simplicity of the music, the colors from the glass reflecting on her white gown… everything was perfect. Naturally, Henry chose Vegas and an Elvis impersonator- you can figure out the rest, I'm sure."

"Another cue to say goodnight, I assume?" Tavington said, breaking the silence that the song had trapped them in when it ended.

As if by fate, another wave of roaring rainfall tore through the neighborhood. Moxie leapt off of the couch and towards the window, trying her best to intimidate the rain with her barking.

"Or we could stay here until the fire dies out…" Marigold suggested, returning to her original spot on the couch. Tavington followed suit. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes of course…" They reclined slowly. Marigold grabbed a nearby throw and nearly managed to cover them with it from head to toe, but of course, Moxie snatched it away. It trailed behind her as she raced through the living room.

"I'd chase her, but I'm too content," Tavington admitted as he pulled Marigold into his arms.

"She gets very jealous. She used to push her nose between my hand and Henry's," their fingers laced, "I wonder why she hasn't done that with you."

"Perhaps it's that miraculous judge of character you mentioned when we first met."

Marigold shook her head, "Dogs have really good hearing. My guess is she can hear the way our hearts beat in response to one another. Your character… well…"

Although she meant this only in jest, Tavington drifted off that night with a guilty conscious. It took a sudden change in his heartbeat for Marigold to realize that she had fallen asleep beside him. The fire had reduced to a smolder that was barely bright enough to illuminate the living room. She could feel him shaking in her arms and the tiniest appearance of a tear caught the light of the dying embers. He appeared to be lost in a dream that left him not erratic or frightened- but deeply pained.

"William?" Marigold attempted to ease him out of his dream with her touch. His cries were soft and filled with shame at first. Their volume increased as she held him closer. "William, my love?" She pleaded. "Wherever you have gone, come back to me…"

It was her words that brought him back. The shadow of guilt that the dream had cast on him remained as he opened his eyes and tried to explain himself. "I killed them," he sobbed, the idea repelled him from Marigold's touch entirely. Tavington stood and, to Marigold's surprise, headed for the door. "I killed so many of them! And the past is bleeding over into this world." When Marigold chased after him, he turned. "I don't deserve to look at you. You are going to find out the truth and…"

"William," Marigold coaxed, touching his hand before it could reach the doorknob. She didn't know how to talk to him when he was like this, but she had to try. "William, look at me. When I died, I had a sort of conversation with Annabelle. My role in this strange drama is clear. Judgement is not my task and therefore, I cannot and will not judge you. It is not my place to do so."

His fingers closed in on hers. He examined their clasping hands as though they were unnatural and didn't belong together. "If only I could rid you of what ever task my presence has forced upon you, my sweet girl."

"No, William. It is the greatest blessing that I have ever received." Although she tried to will them away, her eyes flooded over with tears. "I have only just started to fulfill it. Don't make me give it up now."

He held her close, gradually becoming aware of the circumstances. A soft chuckle sounded in his chest. "What is this task of which you speak?"

"To love you. Without question. Just as I did in my previous life and perhaps in every life before." She paused, only for a moment to savor the change of mood in his eyes. "And I do, William. I do love you. Every beat of my heart confirms that it is real. And I am not afraid of it because I know that it is good. Just like you."

She led him by the hand, back into the comfort of her arms. He moved once before succumbing to stillness once more. He rested against her body with such softness and innocence it was as if he was no longer a man, but a boychild with his head on his mother's breast. "Your love reaches beyond goodness, Marigold." He whispered before departing into a sweet slumber. "It is holy. You are my redeemer. You are my religion." These were the last words spoken between them until morning.

 **Author's Note: Sorry for the cheese in this chapter. But after waiting 200+ years to finally reunite, mushy stuff is kind of a necessary evil for Tav and Mare. Rest assured, there's plenty of drama (and time traveling) waiting just around the riverbend. (The random belting of showtunes is more than encouraged.) While we are on the subject, I did a very nerdy thing recently and pieced together a working "soundtrack" for this story. It can be found in the "Playlist" section of my Youtube channel (Lisa Saturna). While it follows my outline and the psyches of the characters, it doesn't give away too much if you're worried about "spoilers" and no, it isn't exclusively rockabilly and showtunes. So Marigold probably wouldn't like it. As always, your reviews, private messages and the mere fact that you are sticking with this strange little project of mine brings a thousand-watt smile to my face! Chapter 10 will be up this weekend at the latest. -LS**


	10. A Prophecy of Fire

**Disclaimer: 10 points will be awarded to your house if you can guess what the restaurant that Marigold takes Tavington to for lunch is a reference to…**

Teaching a man from the 1700's how to use an Aeropress is a surprisingly simple task. Or rather, Marigold found that it was less of a challenge than showing Giselle or Jake how to make even a halfway decent cup of coffee with it. A mere ten minutes into her "lesson", she applauded Tavington as he flipped the transparent, coffee-filed device without spilling a drop.

"That's the fun part, in my opinion!" As she drew back the curtains, the early morning light fused with her kitchen's sunny décor. Tavington looked on lovingly as she flitted about the kitchen in a borderline skip. "Giselle spilled coffee all over her knitting project and gave up on the Aeropress all together. And Jake? Well, he looks tough but cried like a baby when the boiling water splashed onto his hand." She laughed, wrinkling her nose much to Tavington's adoration and delight. "Amateurs."

He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and requested that she sit. As she walked past him, he caught a wave of fragrance that was left over from when she toned her face with rosewater earlier. It drew him in and made him crave a second and perhaps, even a third passing from his energetic little hummingbird. "You first, my love! I need to know the exact makings of your perfect cup of coffee."

Marigold hesitated. She wasn't used to being waited on. Even when she was married to Henry, breakfast in bed and similar gestures were limited to very special occasions. But when Tavington crossed to her hanging display of coffee mugs and gestured at them in the most presentational, "enter for your chance to win this fine television set" fashion, she couldn't help but climb on board. "You're really serious?"

"I am! Let's see, we have… five hummingbird cups, but we don't pass judgement in this establishment, so all is well. The… what does that say? Huffle…puff? Cup. Portland State University, Gilbert and Sullivan Festival, Hogwarts Wasn't Hiring So I Teach Muggles Instead… I have no idea what that means…"

Marigold covered her face but her fit of laughter still bled through. It was no mystery that she was completely smitten. "The bumble bee mug, William. Please."

"One bumble bee mug for you and one… good heavens… Rose City Birdwatchers Guild mug for me. Very well then! Giselle mentioned something about hazelnut the other day and I know you're not a fan of overly-sweet beverages rendering you an oddity amongst other hummingbirds, no doubt," a tiny wink, "so, you will have to instruct me on the syrup portioning," he removed a large container of hazelnut syrup from the spice cabinet and started to struggle with it.

"Remember when I showed you how to get the hand soap out of the bottle? Same thing. You press down on the… there you go… just twice." She clapped her hands again, "God, you're a fast learner! You're going to do splendidly at work today, I can already tell."

Not only was he "all smiles" this morning, but he looked so natural in Marigold's living space that she couldn't take her eyes off him. He was meant to be there, with her, all those long and lonely years.

"Splash of milk, just like your tea, I assume?"

She rose and met him halfway through his walk. "You know me all too well." He would have protested her getting up, but the lightest, sweetest kiss on the mouth as she accepted the steaming cup remedied her deviation. "It's perfect. Thank you for doing this for me."

After sipping their coffee and finishing a small but satisfying breakfast of whole grain toast with a liberal smearing of the divine creation that is Trader Joe's Cookie Butter, they readied themselves for the day. Marigold offered to drive Tavington to work. She talked him through the basics of starting the engine, the various brakes and what their functions were, and how much (how little) gas was required to go certain speeds. "Now, before we have our first official 'lesson' this weekend, I want you to remember to ease into the stops. Unlike my brother. I have bruises on my shoulder from how poorly that idiot handles stop signs."

"If his… motorcar?... were a horse, it would have thrown and trampled him long ago!" Apparently, Tavington had learned his vehicular terminology from listening to "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang". His brief whistling of the overture's main theme as they pulled up to the café confirmed this and Marigold couldn't have been more delighted.

"Alright, my love. You have my number. If you need anything at all, there is a phone just outside of the kitchen. Dial first and then talk." Instructed Marigold, secretly feeling more nervous about his first day on the job than he was. "I'm going to swing by the hardware store this morning and have a key made for you. I will bring it by at lunch, okay? What else am I forgetting?"

"Moxie?" He asked, calmly. The goofball of a collie leapt onto the sidewalk from her place in the bed of Marigold's Subaru Baja and stuck her nose against Tavington's window. "I figured she'd be wanting her spot back. Don't worry about me, Darling. I will see you at lunch." He kissed her lips softly before stepping out. Once for Marigold's reassurance and a second time for his own.

"I love you," she called from between Moxie's ears as her new copilot settled in beside her. The words bounced off the nearby buildings and back into the cabin of her car. It seemed to be a declaration before the whole world.

"And I you, my little hummingbird!" He made his way to the door, not breaking eye contact with her once.

Driving away was a challenge. Moxie not only heard, but understood the sad shift in Marigold's heartbeat. So, she placed her chin on her lap in hopes of easing her pain. The drive home from the hardware store after having Tavington's key made, however, put her in a merry mood for the remainder of the morning. She wanted to call someone, to let the world know that she was in love again. But Giselle and Jake would never understand. So, she did what any girl (or Marigold) in love would do and belted her own weird rendition of "I Feel Pretty" at the piano. Until she felt guilty enough for not getting any work done, that is...

While responding to her emails, she noticed two messages regarding Tommy Martin; one from his biology teacher and one from Principal Ballard. The antics that had earned him such an elongated stay in South were as dreadful as she had predicted and Marigold spent her pre-lunch hours brainstorming an effective character building exercise for the lovable hooligan. This kept her busy until it was time to walk to the café.

The restaurant that she had selected for their first casual "outing" was dog-friendly if their patrons dined on the patio, so Moxie was able to come along, too. Tavington's first morning on the job was action-packed compared to Marigold's cozy morning on her laptop. "Westside Story"-infused piano breaks included. He had feared that dishwashing wouldn't be his strong suit, but it turned out that he was a natural. Apparently, Tess popped her head in every now and then to praise his neatness and agility. Even Chef Louie seemed impressed. Marigold had full faith that he would be promoted to something more enjoyable within the month and couldn't be prouder.

Still, his grasp on modern cuisine needed some work. Marigold thought that taking him to a predominately British restaurant for lunch would make him feel right at home, but the menu seemed just as foreign to him there as the one at Coffee n' San-tea.

"What is a… pie, mash and eel? That sounds dreadful." He asked, sifting through his options.

Marigold conducted a quick Google search on her phone. "Most of these dishes weren't in vogue until the Victorian Era. Do you at least know what a banger is?" She grumbled slightly at his lost expression. "Yorkshire pudding?"

His face lit up, "With a roast, I assume? It's only customary."

A pimply bus boy who was about as British than Larry the Cable Guy arrived to take their order. "Thank you for choosing Wee Britain. Nobody does Bangers and Mash like… Weeeee do." His enthusiasm was infectious. Not. As he turned to Tavington, Marigold stifled her laughter with her menu. "What'll it be, dude?"

"Well, since I'm feeling courageous… and famished, I'd like to try the full English breakfast and tea, please."

With a scribble to his tattered notepad, he turned to Marigold. "And the usual for you, Miss Casey?" Another scribble followed her nod. "Honey for the tea, correct?" She nodded a second time and the boy was off.

Marigold reached across the table and gave Tavington's hand a gentle caress. "May I ask you something, Darling?"

"Certainly! Anything you wish…"

"Do you," she lowered her voice and leaned inwards, "do you like it here? In 2017, I mean? I see you going out of your way to integrate yourself into my time-period. You had a life before all of this. Clearly, this has been culture shock for you and going from being a colonel to a dishwasher must be a huge step backwards and… I just need to know that you are happy."

"I can assure you, my love," he said with hasty sincerity, "I have never been happier in all of my life. Being with you and creating what I hope to be a future with you is nothing short of heaven in my eyes."

"If you are ever unhappy, will you tell me?" She took a deep breath, contemplating the phrasing of her next sentence. "I want to make a future with you, too. But the last man I attempted that with kept everything bottled up."

"Marigold," he insisted, squeezing her hand, softly, "I am happy. And always will be so long as you are by my side. Plus, the running water and indoor plumbing is simply inspired! There's that smile that I love so much!" Seeing the grin appear on her face tempted him to take his 'joke' a step further. His voice raised in volume. "Yes, being able to bathe regularly takes the shame out of living in a town that has a restaurant called Wee Britain!"

Naturally, the bus boy arrived just in time to hear this comment and seriously considered spitting in their tea. The assumption that Tavington didn't bathe regularly, however, seemed to even out the playing field. Marigold simply couldn't suppress her laughter at this point.

"You must admit," continued Tavington whose ears were only slightly red with embarrassment, "Waterford has the most peculiarly named establishments. Wee Britain, Coffee n' San-tea, Twist of Skate…"

Marigold leaned forward to the best of her ability. She wasn't sure if she'd heard him clearly over her chain reaction of explosive giggles. A common side effect of new love, no doubt.

"Ah, but of course! What say you, Marigold? You and I? This Saturday?"

The idea of Tavington in roller skates was overkill. She ducked under the table and covered her face. Moxie showed concern immediately and bombarded her with kisses. She returned, teary eyed some thirty-five seconds later.

"Heavens, Miss Casey! You're making quite a spectacle of yourself! I had no idea I was so funny…"

Marigold looked up from behind her messy curtain of golden hair. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had made her laugh so hard. Even Giselle. "Neither did I," she confessed, wiping a tear from her cheek, "just when I thought I couldn't love you more."

…

The last time that Marigold stepped foot in the schoolhouse was Sunday, the night that she "met" William Tavington. That is, of course, if you don't count her short stay in 1781 Waterford. Everything was exactly where she had left it in 2017, broken desks and all. Jake was already waiting for her outside when she arrived with her tote bag full of teaching materials. He assisted her in cleaning the space and even offered to help with the seemingly impossible resurrection of the broken furniture. Having him around might not be so bad after all.

Her students settled in and Marigold proceeded with her usual itinerary. Their time together ranged from 3pm to 7pm and each hour was devoted to common "problem areas". Typically, if a student excelled in one, he or she would help Marigold lead a discussion. If she was lucky, that is. She had an entirely different plan for Tommy Martin. While everyone was busy reading an article about human genetics, she called him over to the vacant space where her desk once stood.

"Mr. Martin," she gave her little golden head a quick shake, "tisk, tisk, tisk. Before I can even try to remedy your grade in Biology, you are going to have to write an apology letter to… you know who. In regards to… you know what-"

"C'mon, Miss Casey!" Paul Schwinn hollered from the front of the class. "We all know what Tommy did. And we all think that it was bomb!" The boys did an air fist-bump as Tommy returned to his chair.

A half an hour passed before Marigold asked how the apology letter was going. A bad idea. To her terror and disbelief, Tommy cleared his throat and started to read what he had so far from his desk. The more she protested, the louder he read. Jake stepped into the building to see what the commotion was, but ended up being so entertained by Tommy's "apology" note that he even shushed Marigold herself on one or two occasions.

 _To my admirable and most esteemed Biology teacher Miss Plimpton,_

 _I know that it must be very hard for you, having to deal with students like me. But let's be honest with one another, you are no cakewalk, yourself. I sit here in South surrounded by some of the brightest minds at Waterford High. Does that sound ironic to you? Well, it should. You see, Miss Plimpton, your grading methods suck, your lectures are dull and your students, even your brilliant ones like myself, are dropping like flies. You have also slept with every other student's daddy in my class. I wasn't starting a rumor when I made the flyers about your sexually transmitted disease. I was being a good boy scout and raising awareness. You shouldn't be able to screw our daddies AND screw your students over with your unfair teaching tactics. I am, however, sorry for the embarrassment that I have caused you. You may have a sexually transmitted disease, but even you, being well-versed in genetics, would have to agree with me when I say…_

 _We are all sexually transmitted humans._

 _Love,_

 _Thomas Martin_

A thunderous applause followed and Tommy rose to steal a tiny bow. Marigold's face remained stern for most of his "performance", but he caught the faintest glimmer of a smile towards the end.

"Two things. One. You're lucky that you caught me in an extraordinary mood, Mr. Martin. Start your letter over and this time, refrain from jargon such as 'screwing everyone's daddies'." She choked back a laugh. "Two. You're lucky that you have until graduation to produce this letter. Because, holy freakin' cow…"

"You are as kind as you are beautiful m'lady," Tommy wiggled his eyebrows, "the next draft will be even more epic than the first!"

…

Washing dishes was a breeze compared to the long and arduous days in the saddle that Tavington was used to, but his fingers were waterlogged, his feet were sore and he was more than ready for the chilly walk home. His reasoning was justified because this meant that he would be able to warm up in front of the fire with his Marigold when it was all over. Most of his coworkers departed long before he was due to clock out and he and Tess were the only ones that remained after closing.

As Tavington went through the motions of stacking tomorrow's mugs and glasses, Tess counted down the till. It turned out that she was one of those individuals who required loud music to concentrate, so she cranked up the volume on the sound system and danced to Johnny Cash while she was counting.

"The Ring of Fire" was going at full blast when she disappeared into the back room. Obtrusive as the loudness of the track was, Tavington found that he was very partial to it. "Ghost Riders in the Sky", which had played a few songs earlier, was enjoyable as well. As placed the last glass on its assigned shelf, the song cut out mid-chorus. His ears rang as they adjusted to the whiplash of silence.

He assumed Tess had powered down her "record player" for the night and quickened his pace as he started on the mugs. Then, something unnatural happened. A single glass just above his hand came alive with a reflection. A reflection of something that was not in the restaurant. He had burned many buildings in his previous life, but was still able to recognize the image of Benjamin Martin's farm immediately. As soon as the reflection captured his attention, the scene faded out and the face of a young boy took its place. There, looking at him from across the centuries was the face of young Thomas Martin.

Before speaking, Thomas grinned. It was neither taunting nor friendly, but peaceful and accepting. He knew that expression because it was the same one that Marigold had given him last night as she "forgave" him. "It will end in fire," the young boy said before vanishing from the surface of the glass forever.

Tavington tried his best to push this haunting to the back of his mind and return to work. He was almost successful, but heard the squeak of sneakers behind him and turned to find their source. When he saw that it was none other than Tommy Martin, the reincarnate of the apparition he had seen not moments ago, Tavington dropped the mug that he held in his trembling hand and it shattered on the floor.

"Spaz," Tommy pulled out his earbuds and smirked.

"What did you mean by that, Boy?" He asked, retrieving a broom and dustpan from the corner.

"Uh, that you're a spaz?"

"No," Tavington pursued the boy as he headed towards the offices behind the kitchen, "what you said before. About fire."

Tommy paused, "Wow, man," he adjusted his backpack, "you're really warped. And you broke a mug, which sucks. I think you'll get… one free pass? Auntie Tess is gonna be pissed, though. She's in her office, right?" Tommy started to escape down the hall, but something prompted him to turn and face Tavington once more. "Oh, Miss Casey wanted me to tell you that she's going to be home late. They found Tristan Stone and Miss Casey is like… the only person she's able to talk to. She won't even tell her parents what happened. How messed up is that?"

 **Author's Note: Since I'm cranking up the drama again in the next chapter, this one required some silliness to even things out. I'm glad you guys like Tommy! He's going to become a very important character as the story progresses. I know I sound like a broken record, but thank you again for reading and for your lovely feedback. X**


	11. Ghosts on the Riverbank

The evening forecast for Waterford, South Carolina was bleak to say the least. Marigold considered stopping by the café on her way to the hospital, but Tavington still had another hour of work when she headed that way. She felt a pang of guilt knowing that he would have to walk four blocks in the rain only to return home to an empty house. So, she trusted Tommy to swing by his aunt's café to let him know that all was well. In retrospect, this probably wasn't the best idea, but the unnatural events upon which Tristan had disappeared (and now, reappeared) caused her to be more than a little bit frazzled.

Rain pounded aggressively on the roof of her car as she drove from the quaint downtown district and into greater Waterford. A series of roadblocks and a crew of rain-soaked construction workers with tractors and hand-held stop signs took her on a detour through a mid-town development that she was not familiar with. She rolled down her window in frustration as a young worker directed the line of cars that she was in onto a freeway ramp.

"Excuse me, Sir. I'm trying to get to the hospital to visit a friend," Marigold hollered against the wind. "It's urgent. Not only do you have me going in the opposite direction, but through Pembroke. I don't mean to discourage you in any way, you guys are doing a fine job catching up to them. But Pembroke is like… the unnecessary road construction capital of the universe. I won't be able to see my friend until next week at this rate-"

"-Sorry, Miss," The presently antagonistic, but polite young worker interrupted what was going to be a classically lengthy rant from Marigold Casey. "If it's the hospital you want, take Exit 5 onto Meridian when you get to Pembroke. It's an extra thirty minutes, but a straight shot."

Several impatient drivers started to honk their horns. After raising a quick peace sign out her window to everyone involved in the conundrum, Marigold proceeded to the onramp. Exit 5 was a ways off, so she merged into the fast lane and preoccupied herself with NPR. She also stole occasional glances of the rainfall as it splashed into the coinciding river. Her phone rang a little over halfway through the drive and she peeked into her tote on the passenger seat. She was compelled to lower the volume of her radio and pick up when she saw the name flash across her screen: Tristan Stone.

"Tristan!" Marigold practically yelled into the microphone. "I've been so worried about you! It's going to take an extra half an hour, but I am on my way. How are you!?"

"Miss Casey," her voice was different, void of all its natural exuberance, but undeniably Tristan's, "that man. The one that we met on Sunday. I saw him again. I saw him do terrible things. When they found me in Pembroke…"

"Pembroke? Why Pembroke all of a sudden? What were you doing there?" Tristan would have answered, but Marigold saw the exit that she sought approaching on the righthand side of the road and was distracted yet again. If she wanted to make it, she would have to change lanes quickly. Once it was clear, she turned on her blinker and floored it. The slick road caused her to lose control and before she could realize her error, the little yellow Subaru Baja was airborne. Marigold ducked behind her wheel. The car twisted and turned like a corkscrew and yet, everything was in slow motion. She wanted to take it back, to go back in time if only for a second. But there was no going back, her fate had been sealed in the blink of an eye. Within moments, dark waves of water from the river below approached, swallowing her whole.

There was no darkness, no void after the she hit the water. The only thing that Marigold knew for certain was that she had been submerged in the shallow depths one moment and wading towards the surface immediately after. The interior (and exterior) of her car had vanished, leaving her to face the undertow alone. To her relief, however, the undertow of the storm-riddled river was not the monstrosity that she had feared. Once she blinked the water out of her eyes, Marigold realized that it was no longer raining and the sun had yet to set in the distance. The exit ramp and guardrail were gone along with the city limits of Pembroke that she had just passed through.

The water was only deep at the center and by the time Marigold was halfway to the riverbank, she managed to stand without any difficulty. She examined herself for any injuries. Not a scratch. The fact that she was unharmed, however, seemed less obscure when she realized that her reaction to the water had been more psychological than anything. Her hands, her face and clothes were not only dry, but as bright and transparent as smoke. She was no more real to the world around her than a passing breeze. Marigold was a ghost.

There were several hills that sloped down to the river. If Marigold was going to find out why she was there and whether she was alone, she would have to make it to the top of at least the lowest incline. In life, she was a subpar climber at best. In this state, whatever it was, she was as light and graceful as a feather. She reached the top of the hill at twice the speed she had prophesized.

The horizon was typical of a South Carolina winter. Dark formations of cold forestation were blotted beneath the grey evening sky. At the heart of this image, two forms awaited her arrival. They were just as ethereal and weightless as she. Juxtaposed against the dark horizon, Marigold thought that they looked like something out of an expressionist painting.

"Come closer," said the "ghosts" in unison. As they turned, Marigold could identify them without any difficulty. Facially, the one on the right could have been her twin but her attire paired with the single golden braid across her left shoulder indicated that she was the ghost of Annabelle Casey. To the left, stood the girl who Marigold was driving to see when she crashed into the river, the last person she had spoken to before departing from the earth for a second time- Tristan.

"I am sorry that I had to bring you here this way," Tristan said, nipping Marigold's question in the bud, "there is something that I need for you to see if you are going to continue on the path that you are headed down."

Annabelle, far gentler in her expression and demeanor, spoke next. "I see your concern. Don't worry. You will be able to return to him very soon."

Tristan shook her head, "After this, she may not decide to. The choice is Marigold's, not yours."

Marigold kneaded her temples, "Just for clarification, Tristan, they didn't actually find you? I just flew over a guardrail, Annabelle died in 1780-something, and you?"

Tristan shrugged, "We're doing this now?"

Annabelle plopped down in the grass and started moving her hand through the petals of a wildflower. The flower caught the breeze that she was creating with her "touch" and bobbed its head in response. Marigold would have continued to watch this lovely, hypnotic scene had Annabelle not given Tristan permission to explain their situation.

"Starting at the beginning," Tristan sat and gestured for Marigold to follow suit, "do you remember how I vanished in the first place?"

"Baako pushed you off the stadium bleachers." Marigold saw Annabelle turn her attention away from her wildflower. She quickly explained to her what 'stadium bleachers' were along with her best guess as to why Tristan was on them. Waterford students would either make out or smoke pot there (or both) after school, but she left that fine detail out. Then, they both grew quiet and allowed Tristan to continue.

"Darren Baako and I go way back. Believe it or not, we go back as far as you and that monster Tavington do." Another pause. Annabelle took Marigold's hand in hers and Tristan flinched slightly. "You're not the only reincarnate in this scenario, Miss Casey. What Annabelle and I are hoping that you will understand at the end of this painful excursion… is that the past and the present are linked. We can't see those links when we are living because they are hidden from us. We can only glimpse them through-"

"-love," Annabelle's icy grip on Marigold's hand tightened, "because love is divine."

"Death," Tristan rolled her dark, brooding eyes, "and I can prove it. The stadium was built on the remains of a very old churchyard in Waterford. It is in that churchyard that the remains of my ancestor were buried in 1781. You asked about my connection to Pembroke earlier. She, my ancestor, a 16 year old girl by the name of Virginia Hardwick died alongside her uncle in a terrible fire in Pembroke. When her parents recovered what was left of her, she was taken back to Waterford and buried. I think they wanted her to be closer to them. You know how parents are with their suffocating need for proximity."

"But that doesn't explain Baako," Marigold pressed after exchanging a "look" with Annabelle.

"You might not believe this, but there was a time when Baako and were in the same social circle. Before he was initiated into the league of extraordinary douchebags," Annabelle cocked her head, but Tristan proceeded without explanation, "I was his only friend after he was adopted. You are an exact reincarnate of Annabelle. I am an exact reincarnate of Virginia. Don't get me started on the Martin family, we'll be here for the next decade. Darren is only a blood relative of the man that Virginia martyred herself for all those years. I was drawn to him because he was the closest thing that my soul could find to James Wilkins. When we were arguing the other night about silly things like cliques and my own unrequited love… when he pushed me off of those bleachers and onto the burial site of Virginia Hardwick, that wasn't just a coincidence. That was another event in this massive domino-effect that you and I were destined to become trapped inside… this never-ending conversation that the present is having with the past."

Marigold crossed her arms. "You said that I'll have a choice to go back or to stay? Does this mean that you chose to come back here?"

"I called you from the hospital after locking myself in the bathroom," a mask of severity covered her face, "I didn't want them to find me. Not until after the pills did their work."

Annabelle looked up yet again. "The pills?" She didn't understand, but Marigold (sadly) was beginning to piece everything together.

"The Vicodin that I snatched when the nurse was making her rounds," Tristan admitted with calmness, "the entire bottle."

Marigold shook her head as she took in the beautiful, dark-haired girl in front of her, "No." A shock of anger came next. "No! How could you be so idiotic!? So selfish!? Out of all of my students, I thought that I'd never have to worry about you-" the otherworldly touch of Annabelle's white hand derailed her impending rant.

"Would you die for him?" Annabelle asked with great gentleness. This seemed to calm Marigold down, but the grief for her promising young pupil was still present. "If you had to, would you die to save William?" Silence. "That is what the three of us have in common."

"When I heard about what Baako did to you," Tristan sighed, "it killed me inside. I know I had a funny way of showing it, but you always were my favorite teacher. I might have overreacted, I don't know. But I had to see you again, to warn you about Tavington's brutality before I go back to my previous life as Virginia-"

"As Virginia?" Marigold's forehead creased, "You mean, I can go back as Annabelle?"

"You are going to have to at some point," Annabelle confirmed. Her usual smile fell from her lips like a stone, "the time that you have with William in 2017 is limited, Marigold. You know in your heart that he doesn't belong there. Surely, you can see that he is suffering. That he is haunted. He'll tell you that all is well and that he is happy there, but he is merely voicing what you want to hear... because he loves you. I know that you love him, too. And because you love him, you must learn what to say to him when you go back. What words to use to save him from himself. It has always been my dream for him to return to England with honor. I know that he had that same dream for himself. Once he has been saved in the past, the William that your heart has adhered to over the last week will die. There's no saying when or under what circumstances, but he will fade away before your eyes like a flower that has been torn from the earth."

She felt like running, like crying, like screaming at the top of her lungs, but Marigold remained perfectly still. Her eyes began to burn with tears, but she didn't blink. She simply watched and listened as Annabelle charted her future out for her like a prophetess. As silence fell between them, Marigold inhaled slowly and spoke the only words that she could find, the only words that spoke louder than her breaking heart. "If I must suffer his loss to relieve him of even a moment of pain… so be it."

Annabelle's smile returned, "Thank you."

"But if there is any way at all that I could have more time…"

"Once you are through here, you will be able to return to 2017. If that is what you wish." Annabelle explained, "You and William can start the life together that you so desperately desire. I won't think lowly of you if this is what you choose. And I will find you again when the time is right. Or I can tell you everything you need to know now, you can go back to 1781 for a brief visit, rewrite the ending of our dragoon's story, return to 2017 and…"

"If I choose to save him now, how much time will we have?"

"I cannot say exactly, once his restless soul finds peace, there will be no stopping its decline. Please understand, the longer you draw this out, the more he will suffer," Annabelle sighed, "that is all that I know, my friend. Think on it. For the time being, Tristan has something that she needs to make you aware of. I know that it will be difficult for you to see, but try your best to hold on to what I told you before about William. I will wait for you here." As Tristan and Marigold headed into town, Annabelle stayed behind.

Like 1781 Waterford, Pembroke was small and crowded. Strangely, all the human activity was centralized around the church and it was to its steps that Tristan led Marigold. An orderly line of British soldiers lined the premises. But Marigold's eyes were drawn to only one. Every time she saw William Tavington, her heart sprung to life. Even now, despite the separation from her mortal form, she could still feel this sensation. She had never seen a more handsome man in all her life. He was just as statuesque, just as beautiful and cruel as the portrait on the cover of his biography.

"We will stand by the doorway," Tristan instructed solemnly, "what happens inside the church is important, but the exchange between William and James once the doors are locked is why I brought you here."

The terrible scene played out before Marigold without apology. Just that morning, she had awoken in the safety of his arms. Since then, she hadn't only entertained the idea that he was "the one", but believed it with every fragment of her being. She had spent the day in a state of bliss, daring against all reason to imagine what it would be like to become his wife, to learn everything about him there was to know, body and soul. In one day's time, she had fantasized about it all- building a home with him, seeing his features and mannerisms shine through as their unborn son or daughter changed from infant to child, she'd imagined growing old with him while remaining just as happy and adored as she felt this morning.

All those hopes were defeated when he gave his order without remorse. He had called her love "holy" and now, that beautiful sentiment deformed into a mockery. Marigold disengaged only once to look at Tristan. It wasn't until Wilkins' name was called that she understood that Tristan was going through the same hell. After Tavington rode away, leaving the church behind him, Marigold passed through the walls and into the burning building.

"You cannot save them!" Tristan called, following close behind. It was there that Tristan realized something that she didn't witness the last time she was there because she had remained on the outside of the church. Young Virginia Hardwick, her mirrored image, was kneeling in prayer at the center of the panic-stricken room. Tristan's eyes moved to Marigold's. "What is she doing?"

"From what you have said about her," Marigold moved, kneeling alongside the sweet young girl who had only just started to cough from smoke inhalation, "I believe that she is praying for James. Perhaps we should follow her example."

They made a row of three across the aisle. Even after Virginia collapsed, Marigold and Tristan remained, praying, pleading to whoever would listen for the souls of everyone in the building and for the men who they had been fated to love. When Marigold finally opened her eyes, her surroundings had reduced to ashes and Tristan had vanished without a trace.

The walk out of town was long and painful. Guilt haunted her every step. It was difficult not to reflect on their faces, many of them were so familiar to her. She couldn't help but feel as though she had lost William in one clean sweep. If it was merciful to let him go now, perhaps it would be the better choice. She felt a strong desire to hold someone or something close to her. When she saw Annabelle waiting for her to arrive, Marigold ran into her arms.

"He killed them all," embracing Annabelle was a strange sensation, like holding onto a human-shaped gust of wind, "an entire village. Why did Tristan show me this? Why did you allow it?"

"So that you might understand what haunts him." Annabelle whispered. "Have you decided?"

Marigold straightened her back, mimicking a stronger stance as best she could. "I have decided."


	12. A Most Unfortunate Fox

The crash was revoked in the same fashion in which it had occurred: in the blink of an eye. Marigold saw the exit ramp pass by in her periphery and decided to follow the interstate for a while longer. A formidable spot to pull over and collect herself appeared minutes later. This gave her enough time to acclimate to everything from the falling rain, to vent's warm blast of air, to the simple blessing of feeling her lungs expand and deflate around her beating heart.

Once she pulled over into the safety of the road's gravelly shoulder, she unbuckled her seatbelt, tilted her seat back as far as it could go, rolled up in a ball and wept like a child. The sound of her phone ringing only fueled her tears and the quick chime that followed to let her know that the caller had left a voicemail made matters only worse. She knew that the call was regarding Tristan and the gut wrenching decision that she had made to end her own life.

She knew that the voicemail would plague her conscious during the ride home. So, when she felt ready, she gave it a quick listen. In the end, it was Jake who decided to make the call. "Learning" of Tristan's suicide from her brother should have softened the blow, but it didn't. Marigold hadn't run out of tears just yet and gave herself more time to "recover". After starting the engine, she remained on her back for a few minutes, allowing the breeze from her heater to move across her dampened face and dry it as best it could.

The weight of her phone in the palm of her hand was strangely grounding. She had already been selfish enough this evening, what harm would there be in doing one more selfish thing before driving home? She dialed her landline and pressed the cold screen to her face. Two rings later, his voice filled her ear.

"Casey residence," the formality in his tone caused Marigold to smile. It was crooked and broken in parts, but a smile nonetheless.

"Casey residence?" She teased. "You're my boyfriend, not my butler. How was work, Fancypants?"

"Long, tedious… I missed you every second of it."

She tried with all her might to suppress it, but a tiny sob sounded in the back of her throat.

"Darling? Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine, William. Don't worry about me. I will be home within the hour. I just… I just had to hear your voice. Sorry if that is silly. My god, I'm so selfish…"

"Marigold, my love" his voice was so soothing and tender that it was as tangible as a kiss, "you are not selfish at all. Saints and angels themselves must envy your selflessness and grace."

She tried to close her eyes, but the vision of the burning church appeared and they snapped open instantly. "I love you. I love you and I'm sorry if I worried you."

"There is nothing to be sorry for. Moxie and I will eagerly await your arrival. Be safe out there in the rain, my love."

Marigold forced a smile as was her way. "Sorry that your first real phone call had to be so shitty…"

"Seeing as it came from you, it was nothing short of a gift. I love you."

A new wave of tears overcame her as she hung up. Surely, he suspected that something out of the ordinary had happened. The idea of causing him any more pain ignited a vicious pattern of overthinking. When she finally felt confident enough to drive again, Marigold wrestled with her thoughts. She shuffled through her CD's and cassettes for a distraction. Bob and Doug McKenzie's "Great White North" album won out in the end because it is fabulously ridiculous and just long enough for the commute that she'd fallen into after missing her exit.

The album ended just as she pulled onto Main Street. Most of the shops were closed save for a few local restaurants and the neighborhood market. She pulled into the market's parking lot and returned shortly after with a large container of tomato soup, two chef salads from the deli and a glass bottle of chilled sparkling water. She'd considered snagging wine instead, but she was going to be falling asleep with a foggy enough mind as it was.

The streets were empty the whole way home and Marigold grew complacent. As she passed the park, a small red fox darted in front of her car. She hadn't realized the assault that she had made on the poor animal until she heard it thump against her bumper. The last time that she hit any sort of a creature was a squirrel on her college campus in Oregon. Her roommate had to listen to her cry about it all evening, but the fox, to her surprise, received no remorse. She was done for the night and headed down the road without so much as a glance in her rearview mirror.

Her mind grew active again as she pulled into her garage. She remembered Annabelle's poem about the hummingbird (a metaphor for herself) and the fox (a metaphor for Tavington) her floodgates broke and guilt rushed in. Her decision to keep him here, for herself, was just as cruel and ruthless as the butchering of the fox. She would have turned back to at least check on the creature or do it the honor of pulling it off the road… but the garage light switched on and he stepped through the doorway.

"I brought dinner," Marigold said in a hollow voice.

Tavington gave her a small kiss on the cheek and carried the items inside. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, Marigold?" He asked once they reached the kitchen.

"She's gone," Marigold felt her words ricochet from the wall and pierce her heart. She would have explained, but a hard lump formed in the back of her throat. It wasn't until after she hid herself away in his tight, willing embrace that she spoke again. "I was on my way to see her, but I was too late."

He hardly understood, but didn't ask her any questions. All that he could offer her was a shoulder to cry on. Moxie pitter-pattered around the corner to see what was wrong and showed her concern by pressing her nose against Marigold's hand. She lost her footing as grief took over and her tears swelled.

"Would you like to sit down? Lie down? Anything you need, anything at all, you need only ask and I will provide it." He waited for her response, but received only a painful series of sobs. It broke his heart to see her like this. After feeling her struggle to stand, he took her in his arms and carried her upstairs.

"You should have your dinner," Marigold finally said after he smoothed the comforter over her tiny, shaking form.

"I won't leave you here to cry alone. You come first. You always will." He remained by her side, stroking her hair and waiting for her tears to change to sleep. When he finally rose, Marigold grabbed hold of his hand.

"Come into my bed, William."

This demand was so obscure. Despite their desire for one another, they had a silent, mutual understanding that the connection of intimacy was spiritual. Rushing the process wouldn't only be imprudent, but, if both parties weren't ready, it could throw of their entire rapport.

"If that is what you wish," said he, moving in beside her and folding the blanket over himself.

Marigold pulled him in, kissing him with force. Halfway through, she stopped to make way for yet, another chain of deep sobs.

"Darling, we should wait," Tavington protested, though it pained him to do so, "there will come a time for you and I to take this step. But it is not tonight. Tonight you need to cry and, if you'll have me, I won't let go of you until your last tear falls."

Her grip loosened and she found the most ideal place to lie with her head against his beating heart. She listened closely to every fleeting beat. The silence between them combined with the vacancy in his lungs with each escaping breath foreshadowed his inevitable end. Marigold wept loudly into his chest, as though she had already lost him forever. He tried to reach her, tried to let her know that he was there by holding her close and kissing each tear every time her face moved within his reach. But she was gone, temporarily lost upon a tumultuous sea of grief.

Dawn was upon them when Marigold slipped into a sleep that was, thankfully, devoid of any dream. Tavington remained by her side until her breaths grew rhythmic and deep. He showered quickly, dressed and prepared Moxie for a walk. He would have to move quickly if he wanted to pull off the plan that he had. They took the back way and cut through the park. The neighborhood market wasn't opened yet, but fate had it that Tavington ran into the florist who he had befriended earlier that week. After returning Moxie, he quickly placed a small, simple bouquet of white lilies, a symbol of sympathy, at Marigold's bedside before heading back out into the cold.

She ignored her first alarm and failed to set a second one. At around noon, the doorbell rang and Moxie's loud bark echoed from downstairs. She would have ignored this, too, but a text message from Giselle that simply read, "Answer your door, Butthead!" forced her out of bed. Sadly, Tavington's flowers went unnoticed. Still, Moxie's hysteria combined with Giselle's incurably optimistic demeanor was exactly what Marigold needed.

"I went to that new cheese steak place, you know? The one like Penn Station, but with less grease? And their sandwiches could crush a car," Giselle blathered, removing a colossal sandwich wrapped in a sheet of noisy, white paper from her bag (it's worth noting that Moxie was sprinting across the kitchen on her hindlegs like a velociraptor at this point), "and I told them, I said- I ain't looking for a discount. I'll pay the $6.99. I just want less damned steak! Because there is this little thing… this little thing called portion control. And I'm a hippy girl-" Marigold started to unwrap the sandwich and glared at Giselle before taking a bite, "you know it's true, Mare. And once I start, I can't stop- how is it?"

"About as greasy as Penn Station," Marigold confessed.

"Well, shit."

"It was very sweet of you to stop by."

"Well, you know…" Giselle tore into her sandwich, tossing Moxie a piece every now and then, "I thought you could use a friend after… yeah. How are you and Constable Tweety Bird?"

"I think," Marigold smiled, desperately searching for a hint of optimism in the wake of the heartbreak that Annabelle had caused her, "I think he might be the one, Zippy. I know that I said that about Henry. But this one… he's different. When I looked at Henry, it was like staring at a brick wall. A really, really ridiculously good looking brick wall," Giselle snort/choked, throwing Marigold off only slightly, "But with William, I almost see his love for me radiating from within."

Giselle simply rolled her eyes. "You're on crack! Sorry. I shouldn't joke about drugs after," she cleared her throat. "Are you going to South tonight?"

"Of course, I'm going to South. It's my job."

"Because," she threw the remainder of her greasy lunch to Moxie who gobbled it up with gusto, "Principal Ballard told me to tell you that he doesn't mind if you miss another day."

"That's because Principal Ballard wants to see me fail. He has no respect from me or my facility and you know it."

"Jesus, Mare. I wasn't trying to attack you or anything. All that I'm saying is, if you need someone to fill in for you, I'll do it. Are you sure you're okay?"

Marigold finished her last bite and pulled out a handheld coffee grinder. "I'm just overtired. Would you like a cup, too?"

"Nah, I need to dash," she collected her totes, smooched Moxie on the nose, and gave Marigold a tighter-than-a-vice hug, "and for the record, I think it's really cool."

"What's really cool?" Marigold asked, squirming out of Giselle's bearhug.

"That you're… overtired." A wicked smile followed.

"Oh, will you shut up!?"

"Tell me honestly before I go… does his ass look as amazing out of those jeans as it does in them because Holy Moses!"

Marigold shoved Giselle's shoulder, "That's almost on the same plane of inappropriateness as me asking you about Jake's ass. Now, get out of my house before I feed you to my hellhound."

"Not even!" Giselle stuck her tongue out at Marigold when she reached the door. "Because Jake is your brother and he doesn't even have an ass! Oh, by the way you might want to hold off on that coffee grindin'…"

"Really? And why is that?" Marigold's text tone chimed from the kitchen. After receiving a quick nod from Giselle, she turned to answer it.

"I got you a date. I may have claimed you for lunch, but there's a dreamy, newly cellphone'd Englishman four blocks away who wants to treat you to a latte over his lunch break."

Marigold looked at her phone in disbelief. "You got my boyfriend a cellphone? And you taught him how to text?" Laughter followed from both sides. "So, I take it you like him, then?"

"I like his butt. I figure you've gotta start somewhere..." With a wink, Giselle left Marigold in significantly higher spirits than before.

Her "date" with Tavington wasn't for another half hour, so Marigold was able to put some effort into her appearance. She initially wanted to stay inside until work, but the last-minute decision to bring her laptop and teaching supplies to the café was just spontaneous enough to put an extra spring in her step. She knew that there would be people downtown who would try to converse with her about Tristan. Though it seemed cold, she brought a pair of sunglasses and headphones along for the walk for the sake of cutting herself off from the world for a while.

As she selected her dress, tights and sweater for the day, Marigold finally noticed the heartwarming floral arrangement that Tavington had left on her nightstand and the anticipation of seeing him again, even after their brief time apart, filled her with gratitude and joy.

They kept their conversation light when she arrived at Coffee n' San-tea. The café was so packed during the lunchtime hour that they had to share a large armchair in the corner and were barely able to pull it off. During the last five minutes or so of his break, Tavington pulled Marigold onto his lap and stole several discreet kisses to her collarbone and neck. Neither of them had behaved like this in public since college and the fun was short-lived when he realized that Tess was clocking him from around the corner.

Marigold told him beforehand that she was going to spend the afternoon there and every time he could fit a small break into his schedule, he would sneak out to where she sat, give her a gentle hug from behind and returned to the back room without a sound. This gesture, childish as it was, turned out to be exactly what she needed to make it through the day. Every time she remembered Annabelle's words or visions of Tristan or the burning church weighed on her heart, he would appear with his warm embrace.

If only he had been there when she headed off to work in the rain. Her mood remained neutral for most of the evening. Before releasing her students, a half an hour early due to the growing storm, she gave a quick word about Tristan and opened the floor for anyone who wanted to say or ask anything about their fellow classmate. All that she received was silence. Save for a very uncalled-for and poorly executed rendition of "Taps" from Tommy Martin and his kazoo, which she ended up confiscating before he left the building.

Jake offered to drive her home and they had a painful, but necessary discussion about her role in Baako's trial along with the various memorial services and vigils that were being planned for Tristan Stone. The storm was raging at full force when they pulled up at Marigold's bungalow and they were both in need of lighter conversation and perhaps even a cup of tea or two, so she invited Jake in.

As they stepped inside, Marigold caught sight of Giselle, lounging lazily on her couch with her latest knitting project. Tavington was a few seats over.

"Marigold!" He cried from the other side of the darkened room. His new cellphone was glowing in his hand. The fire in the fireplace aside, this was the only source of light around, "Marigold! The pigs have stolen the birds' eggs! And they are angry!"

"Yup," Giselle confirmed without even looking up, "I've corrupted him…"

"What ever shall I do?!" continued a fully-engrossed Tavington, "I know, I shall catapult the birds through the air and into the Fortress of the Pigs…"

Jake headed into the kitchen and, without any real permission from his sister, started to ravage her orderly cupboards in search of junk food. Marigold typically would have given him hell, but instead she crossed the room, red faced, in hot pursuit of her best friend.

"Get up," she growled, "I need to talk to you. Right now."

Tavington spoke up, yet again, "Marigold! This time the pigs have incorporated glass and metal pillars, but that isn't going to stop me!"

"That's wonderful, William," she quickly gave his long, dark hair an adoring stroke, "Zippy. Up."

When Giselle rose, lethargically, Marigold dragged her by the hand and out onto the rain-soaked porch. She cornered her against the railing and let her frustration fly. "What they hell do you think you are doing!?"

"Billy and I were texting and my pumpkin bread recipe came up. I thought I'd swing by and give him a little cooking lesson."

"Billy!? So, he's Billy to you now, is he!? This afternoon, he was… what? Constable Tweety Bird or some shit?"

Giselle tried to turn herself away from Marigold's attack, when this didn't work, she crossed her arms, defensively, "I'm afraid I don't follow, Mare…"

"You didn't even stop to consider how fucked up it is to come home and find your best friend and your boyfriend alone together in a dark room? You're lucky that I didn't throttle you in front of everybody!"

"Look, if this is about what I said earlier about his ass-"

"-it's so much more than that, Giselle! You know as well as I do that Henry left me for another woman. Just the mere simulation of something like that happening with William-"

"Yeah, well. You were married to Henry. Until I see a ring on your finger, preventing Billy from making a new friend makes you a controlling psycho-bitch. You aren't his wife, so stop pretending that you are."

Marigold's tears blended into the rain, but Giselle saw each and every one of them. She wiped them off her face with anger, crying was the last thing she wanted to do.

"I'm sorry, Mare. That was uncalled for. If it's any consolation, we just… we just made pumpkin bread. I should have called or something, but he…"

"He was trying to surprise me again, wasn't he?" When Giselle nodded, Marigold couldn't hold it in any longer. "He does that all the time. I don't know why."

"Because he's a sweetheart, that's why. You don't ever have to worry about that one betraying you or leaving you. Believe it or not, and you probably don't right now, but you don't have to worry about me betraying or leaving you, too. In any sense of the word. Okay?"

"But what if he does leave me?"

Reaching for Marigold's hand was the equivalent of willingly stepping on a landmine, but it would be worth it just to reach her and pull her back down to earth. "Then I will do what I have done after every major and minor breakup you've gone through since puberty. Even after that nincompoop Todd dumped you in Portland and I flew all the way out there to spend the week with you at that marijuana-marinated dormitory. I will buy you ten economy sized bags of Crunch bars, watch in terror as you down each and every one of said Crunch bars while binging on the entire Harry Potter franchise, books included… buy you some more Crunch bars, try my darndest to talk you out of dying your hair black, convince you that you can't actually join an adult Quidditch team, patch up your knee after you impale it with a mop while going for a papier-mache "quaffle", drive you to Sally's and splurge on five buckets of bleach to get your hair back to normal, I think there's probably the purchasing of more Crunch bars in there somewhere, holding your hand while you cry because the bleach made your hair resemble a tequila sunrise, spin a story to tell your hair stylist so you don't have to embarrass yourself… and I will do it all with a smile on my face and a song in my heart because I love the stuffing out of you."

Marigold could have elaborated on what she meant, but she'd given Giselle enough heat for one evening. "I love the stuffing out of you, too."

"So… we're cool, then? You aren't still mad at me?"

"You're on probation at best. I mean, you did get William hooked on Angry Birds…"

From there, the evening mellowed into another strange albeit enjoyable merging of four friends. Giselle convinced Marigold to turn on _Rushmore_ and Tavington had his first encounter with a full-length movie. He had watched the news briefly with Marigold a few days prior, so he knew what to expect for the most part. Giselle periodically teased Marigold about the similarities between the Miss Cross/Max Fischer dynamic and the case of "unrequited love" that Tommy Martin had for her. This made Tavington uncomfortable and he directed his attention to Angry Birds for much of the film. He did find some enjoyment in hearing Jake's recount of Marigold's confiscation of Tommy's kazoo, however.

Jake snuck out halfway through the film to pick up some wine and, inevitably, the movie viewing turned into another (only somewhat) uncomfortable slumber party. Jake and Giselle took the guest room while Marigold, Tavington and Moxie headed upstairs. The feeling of having him next to her in her own bed gave Marigold a sense of comfort that she had never felt before. She didn't know this, but he watched her closely as she fell asleep with her face just inches from his. A small but undeniable smile moved across her lips and it remained there all through the night.

 **Guest- that's an awesome question. The best way that I can answer it without giving away too much is: Annabelle and Tavington were separated at the end of "Only Through Victory". She died with a clear conscious and was able to find peace. Tavington couldn't- so Annabelle basically intervened and merged his life with Marigold's.** **Annabelle knows a lot more about the situation than Tavington. If he seems aloof, it's because he is. He knows that something is at work to "save his soul" so to speak, but at this point in the story, he thinks that he has landed in an "afterlife" and has a second chance at love. He doesn't know how limited his time is with Marigold. If he knew how susceptible she is to heartbreak, he would end things before they get too involved.** **(This is a very real choice that he will have to make in the coming chapters. As his guilt for the murders that he committed in the past grows, Marigold will also have to decide how/when to ease his suffering.)** **If things seem dramatic right now, it's only the tip of the iceberg. Lol. Sorry if that was vague. There's a lot more to it and it will all make sense as everything unfolds, honest.**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing, guys! Hopefully the comic relief is making this read less of a "downer". I'm going back and forth with myself about putting this story in the "humor" category. Another reason why "Dramedy" needs to be a real genre...**


	13. A Gallery of Broken Hearts

Had he not seen the sign in the Main Street jeweler's window on the way to the cafe, it would have been just another morning. Maybe it was power of suggestion, maybe it was destiny, but before he even made it through the front door, Tavington and the ring chose one another. It wasn't ornate or regal by any standards. The dazzling effect that the morning sun had on the single marquise-cut diamond and the glint on its dainty silver band weren't nearly as important as the image that Tavington had in his mind of the ring on his Marigold's slender finger. It would complement her sweetness, her simplicity and her undeniable beauty that had always seemed akin to a diamond in the sunlight.

He was initially concerned about having to explain the payment plan to Marigold, but the jeweler was more than accommodating. No mail would be sent to "their" home unless he was overdue; it was a good as a secret. After all, now was not the best time to ask Marigold to be his wife. But the day would surely come. They had a few events coming up in the future and the forecast for mid-October looked favorable for walks. There were so many options, they had plenty of time and the future couldn't look brighter.

Halfway through work, something changed. The sweet weight of his most important purchase of the 21st century in his breast pocket included, everything seemed to be going his way. Tavington had jumped through all the right hoops, kept his work station pristine and running like a switch, he'd even received news of a small raise that would be included in his next paycheck. So, why the sudden shift in his demeanor?

For one, Marigold had not been herself all weekend and starting the week off by digging out the dress that she had worn to her parents' funeral only worsened her mood. Although seeing his beloved in such a state of emotional distress and knowing that he would have to work through Tristan's memorial service and Baako's court hearing made him feel like a failure as a boyfriend, there was something else that was eating away at him. Something entirely separate from engagements and timing and guilt.

Louie was the first to notice the difference in Tavington's presentation. He was scrubbing just as aggressively and stacking plates just as quickly as ever, but he was only able to do so while leaning against the wall for support. His eyes, usually widened and ready for any incoming trays, were weary and distant. Tess took one look at him at Louie's request and demanded that he take however long a break he required.

"Have a glass of water, a cup of tea or coffee, anything you need is on the house. You should also try walking it off," she pushed a chair beneath him, catching his slow slide down the wall. "Or sit it off. Do whatever you have to do."

When he was finally able to move again, he went to the men's room and splashed some cold water on his face. His fingers felt numb first and then the numbness moved through all his extremities. Poor circulation would have been any modern man's first guess, but his anatomical knowledge was limited to the most effective places to shoot or stab the enemy in battle. Sitting still made it worse, so he took Tess' advice, filled a paper cup with water and headed for the front door.

It was darker and colder outside than he expected it would be. A combination of the shortening of days and yet, another blustery evening was likely the cause. Most of the café's patrons were seated inside. In his awkwardness, Tavington brushed past the only customer on the patio, a young girl, while weaving through the maze of umbrella'd tables and black iron chairs.

"Watch yourself," she demanded. He had barely touched her, but it seemed to have set her off nonetheless. As she pulled her chair inwards and away from him, it scraped loudly against the concrete and produced a sound far worse than nails on a chalkboard.

Tavington would have apologized and moved along, but there was something attention-grabbing about this girl. Something familiar. As he turned to get a better look, his head stopped spinning. His heart, which had been pounding in his ears, seemed to steady out.

"Well," her dark eyes glistened, "are you gonna sit down or what?" He said nothing in response, merely stared. "You'd better sit. You might miss something important if you don't…"

His vision returned to its normal state. The girl- twelve, thirteen years old at most had pale skin, a thick pair of glasses and a dark head of curls. As Tavington continued to take her in, she looked on in impatience. "You're Tristan Stone, aren't you?"

"Bingo. Tristan Stone. Circa 2015."

"So, that must mean that I'm… that I've…"

"You're passed out on the floor of the men's room. Nobody gives a shit. I'm borrowing you for five minutes. But after you get back, I recommend getting that ticker checked out."

"Ticker?" Tavington sat, openly bewildered.

"You're in the South, honey. We have a cutesy word for just about everything down here." She smiled, as much as a moody tween could, anyway. "A ticker is a heart. And yours is a medical mystery at best. My guess is an arrhythmia, but what do I know? I'm pre-pre-pre-med. Or, I used to be."

"I'm sorry about-" he stopped himself, unsure of what words to use, "Marigold told me just last night about what a kind, insightful young lady you… were. You meant a lot to her."

"Speaking of Miss Casey…" Tristan pointed to the front window of the coffee shop. Inside, Marigold and Giselle were huddled closely over a small, round table. At first glance, it looked as though they were deep in conversation. As he looked closer, Tavington realized that they were moving around the pieces of a tabletop puzzle. Something was different about the café tonight. There appeared to be some sort of an event going on. Tess was seen on a makeshift stage in the corner where an overstuffed couch usually lived. She started to speak into a handheld microphone and both Marigold and Giselle's faces disappeared behind their blonde waves and curls as their heads turned in attention.

Tavington opened his mouth to speak, to ask what he was looking at, but Tristan suddenly engaged in a conversation with a passerby. Tavington recognized his voice and looked up. He could still recall the last time that he had seen John Andre alive. Despite the dramatic change in his attire, he appeared to be just as charismatic and clean-cut as he did during their final evening at the theatre before Tavington was commissioned to ride south.

"Excuse me, Miss," the man who Tavington knew as Andre inquired, "I hate to be so forward, but when I was in here earlier, I saw you speaking with that woman in there," he pointed quickly and discreetly, "the pretty one in the black denim and boots."

Tavington did a double-take. Even through the window's reflective surface, he could clearly see that Marigold donned an undeniably blue sailor dress and red flats. It was Giselle who Andre had described to Tristan. All questions were suspended yet again as Andre started to move towards Tavington's chair. He managed to stand up before the intruding man sat, but, as part of their bodies inevitably merged, Tavington realized that he was transparent. Andre had moved right through him!

"You wouldn't happen to know-" his composure was quickly declining and whilst speaking to a twelve-year-old girl, no less, "you wouldn't happen to know what her surname is?"

"Everyone knows everyone's surname around here, loser." Tristan slouched. "Our city might look all modern and stuff, but just about everyone who's a legit "local" has been borrowing the proverbial cup of sugar from one another since colonial times."

Andre smiled at the bright young lady before him. She seemed so clever, so ahead of her time. He stole another indulgent glance at Giselle before speaking again. "She's a Shippen, isn't she?"

"That's Miss Zipp, dude. She teaches high school geometry. Used to teach arts and crafts where I went to elementary school, but after the Great Popsicle Stick Caper of 2014… she stole like 50,000 of those wooden craft sticks from our inventory… they had to let her go." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "She has a criminal record with thumb prints and everything. But her best friend's brother is a cop. I can tell you're not from around here, so let me tell you know- Waterford is a very political place."

"Is that so?" His smile only widened. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Say, what of her lineage? Could you tell me a little bit more about the… Zipps?"

"Nah," Tristan started to peel away at the black polish on her fingernails, "but the girl she's with, that waify little blonde chick? She could fill you in. She's a Casey. They have all the dirt on everyone around here. Or, they used to, anyway…"

Andre's back straightened and his brow creased in thought, "I've heard of the Caseys. They used to run the museum a few blocks away."

"Yessir. My parents used to work there before it closed indefinitely."

"I hope your parents weren't involved in the-"

"Nope," Tristan said quickly, "everyone on the staff was away when it happened. The Caseys weren't so fortunate."

Tavington could feel a knot forming in his chest. Marigold had lost her parents, this he knew. But he hadn't heard it spoken of in full. Giselle and Jake avoided mentioning it like the plague. It was one of those things that he knew they would discuss when she was ready. But he was still quietly curious about what had happened.

"I would hate to impose on that poor girl," Andre's eyes moved from Giselle to Marigold and they seemed to remain almost as adoring, "but, my lord. A real Casey. In the flesh. You know, I stopped by the Casey Schoolhouse earlier this week and I-"

"Not interested." Tristan pulled her backpack into her lap and removed her cellphone and a tangled wad of wires. Probably a hybrid of headphones and chargers, but there was no telling.

"Can you tell me one more thing, Miss-"

"Uh, Tristan," she went to shake his hand, but the unwrapped Starburst that had adhered to her sleeve during the hunt for her phone seemed to repel him.

"Miss Tristan. Lovely to meet you. I'm Henry Anderson… could you tell me what is going on in there, exactly?"

"It's Miss Zipp's birthday. They're doing a roast and she's like... a super easy target. So, half the town showed up! You can still go in, though. The café isn't closed for the night or anything. Cheapskates."

"Henry" glanced at his reflection in the window and shuffled his tragically cowlicked hair. Then, he thanked Tristan and headed for the door.

"You mean to tell me," Tavington returned to where he had been seated previously, his eyes still lovingly locked on Marigold, "that Henry and Giselle… and that Giselle and Peggy Shippen?"

"No to the first one and kinda to the second one. The thing about John Andre is that he basically doomed himself to love Peggy from afar for… well, forever. James Wilkins and I are in a similar conundrum."

"… Captain James Wilkins?"

"Affirmative. Captain James Friggin' Wilkins. You learn a lot of really cool crap after you croak. Similarly, you and your little strawberry ice cream cone, _Annagold_ , are doomed to have your happily ever after pulled out from under your feet over and over again until the end of time. We're basically all doomed, dude. You think that love is a brutal bitch in life? You're in for a real treat in the afterlife! If you're curious why you're crossing channels with me right now, and I'm sure you are, here's the scoop: You are a ticking time bomb. These little blackouts that you're having are going to get longer and more uncontrollable and it's going to get harder for you to come back until one day when you just… don't. Don't look so pissed all of a sudden, I'm not done. The next time that this happens, you are going to be able to help your pal, Andre out. Think of it as a first step in the right direction. Each blackout has within it a missed opportunity or a redeemable sin, or both."

During Tristan's little monologue, Tavington would periodically look through the window. His mind drifted to his impending proposal. "I'll come back after blacking out until I… don't? What of Marigold? Where does she fit into all this?"

"Marigold is dealing with her own issues. I believe it would be wise to worry about yourself. This is what you wanted after all, right? Redemption? Carpe diem, bro. Of course, what do I know? I'm a twelve-year-old dork who's talking to herself in the middle of downtown Waterford when I should be inside listening to- cancel that thought, I definitely don't want to listen to that."

Tavington glanced over his shoulder, yet again. As Marigold skip/walked in her usual fashion to the edge of the stage, Tess handed her the microphone. "What is she doing?" The severity on his face seemed to fade away. "Singing, I assume? I love it when she sings-"

"Nah, I don't think that's what she's doing, bro. Ugh. I think she's going to recite something."

His face lit up even more, "Would you mind if I-"

"Nope. This is your minor heart attack. Do what you wanna do…"

Putting his questions on the back burner probably wasn't the best idea, but recitations were a rare gift from Marigold. It was one of her few disconnects from Annabelle; something that he had silently wished she would do and felt selfish for missing. When he entered the café, a wave of her musical laughter filled the air, warming him, melting his worries and cares away.

"I've made a career of embarrassing Giselle," she tripped, only slightly, on the stage's uneven surface, "so I pride myself for coming up with a new and innovative way to embarrass her on her birthday. I like to think of it as a very strategic career move-"

"Get on with it!" Jake's crude voice echoed from around the corner. Tavington could see a much smaller, but no less spirited, Tommy Martin racing across the room to where Jake's voice had originated from. "You gonna hit me, boy!? Where's Benny? Benny control your son!"

Had he been paying better attention, Tavington would have seen yet another "ghost" from his past. This time, in the form of Benjamin Martin himself rising from a nearby chair to restrain young Tommy. But once Marigold started her poem, she was the only thing he saw.

 _Dear Miss Giselle, The Southern Belle,_

 _You're twenty-five today._

 _And since I know you oh, so well,_

 _It seems my place to say:_

 _That Waterford has never known_

 _A gal so fine… and loud._

 _You're the offensive ringtone_

 _That turns heads in a crowd._

 _Dear Miss Giselle, The Southern Belle,_

 _Decoupage extraordinaire-_

 _You've always been the first to sell_

 _The most crafts at any fair._

 _And since you're known to most us_

 _As a petty craft stick stealer._

 _To others, for your schoolgirl crush_

 _On that nasty Garrison Keillor… (you heard me!)_

 _I'd say, you're easier to roast_

 _Than any coffee bean._

 _So, raise your mugs and give a toast…_

 _Tommy! Say something mean…_

Tommy Maritin stopped what he was doing, namely, moistening bits of a torn paper napkin with his spit and shooting them at the back of Jake Casey's head through a straw- Jake had moved closer to the stage during Marigold's recitation, but that hardly mattered to Tavington. Tommy raced to Marigold like an obedient puppy. He accepted the microphone and mumbled something into the squeaky wave of feedback that sounded like "butthole" before running off. Marigold beckoned Jake next. As he crossed to the stage, Tommy's spitballs fell weightlessly from his dark hair and onto the floor like snowflakes. To Tavington's dismay, her poem received little to no applause. Even after Tess started a "slow clap" for the crowd to follow.

"Wow," Jake droned into the mic, "that was weird. Thanks, Sis."

After Marigold returned to her seat, Henry moved in like a hungry lion at a watering hole. Tavington could feel his face growing warm as he watched this pursuit. He wondered if there was anything that he could do to prevent the heartbreak that Henry would cause her in the future. Right as he made up his mind to return to Tristan, a loud noise filled his ears- a knock of sorts. The scene before him shifted and warped until he was no longer looking at Henry and Marigold's first meeting, but the brightly painted ceiling of Coffee n' Santee's men's room.

"I'm coming in on three. Watch yourself," a gruff voice called from the other side of the door, "one. Two. Three." As the door was kicked open, Tavington flinched. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was lying beside a pair of brown leather boots that smelt of horse hair and something far fouler that also came from a horse.

"Damn, son. This ain't even a bar!" He offered a rough, sandpapery hand and pulled Tavington to his feet. "There we go. Nice and easy, now. You alright?"

"I'll be fine," Tavington stumbled slightly, but managed to take several small steps on his own, "just need to get my… ticker… checked out." The gray-haired man dressed entirely in cowboy gear looked on with concern. "Your attire smells strongly of horses."

"Is that a problem?" He rolled a toothpick around in his mouth as he spoke.

"No," said Tavington, switching on the sink and moving several handfuls of cold water over his face, "on the contrary, I am an equestrian, myself. That smell always puts me at ease."

"This ain't no pickup, son. I just needed the crapper. Did you know that coffee is a natural laxative? You think the Sultan who invented it over in there in Ancient Egypt or some shit needed a morning perk? Nah! It wasn't for another two hundred years that they invented curry…"

It took a moment for Tavington to even begin to piece together what this traditionally peculiar Waterfordian meant. He could have corrected him, but decided to abandon the conversation entirely, "I'll let you have at it, then."

"Don't forget your-" he gave the ring that had fallen out of Tavington's pocket a tiny kick, "no wonder your ticker is all out of whack! My advice? Don't propose in a coffee shop. She'll be halfway to her yes or no and the coffee'll kick in-"

"-I'm not proposing here," he retrieved the ring and held it close, "I'm still trying to decide how and when-"

"-well, you an equestrian, right? Here's my card. Name's Earl Appleby. I own a corral just outside of town. We do rentals- afternoon, evening, overnight you name it. Take your lady friend or whatever on a romantic ride in the country and do it there. Problem solved. And you don't have to wear your ticker thin with stress. Now, step aside, fellow Narnian! Aslan is on the move!" With that, he gave Tavington a small push out the door and clicked the lock shut. Although he pocketed the card along with the ring, he secretly hoped to never run into Earl Appleby again.


	14. Temptation Bears a Price Tag

**Disclaimer: I don't do explicit, that's just not my writing style. That said, this chapter gets a little bit "sexy" in parts. Forgive me. And forgive Marigold. She has a very strong constitution, but at the end of the day, she lives under the same roof as William Friggin' Tavington… and the girl is only human…**

The look on his face as he switched off the ignition was just priceless enough for a pass. He had done miserably, even for a first try. Tavington wasn't used to failing at anything and doing so in front of her made the situation even more embarrassing. But the simple truth remained that if there was anyone who could understand his frustration, it was Marigold.

"Not bad, William," she gave him an encouraging smile after stuffing her keys as deeply into her tote as humanly possible, "a few things that you could work on… windshield wipers are on your left, blinkers are on your right. I actually learned something cool about blinkers back in Driver's Ed. that might help you out."

"Is that so?" Tavington remained white as a sheet as he stared blankly at the empty neighborhood ahead.

"So, when you… William? Right hand on the wheel, please," she placed her hand on top of his and started to guide it downwards, "which direction are we turning right now?"

"Right…" this was silly. Still, there was always something about her touch and the soothing delivery of her words that calmed him.

"Mhm. And if I move your hand up and over from where we are now, we're going left. Each time we did that, we passed the blinker. So, you hit down on the blinker when you go right and you push it up when you go left." After finishing her explanation, she lifted his hand to her lips. "Does that make sense?"

"I think you just wanted an excuse to hold my hand, Miss Casey…"

Marigold smiled, at least he was starting to mellow out some. "Well, that's one of the many luxuries of not learning back in high school. You get unlimited lessons, are able to flirt with your instructor, and optional makeout sessions are held in the back seat at the end of each class."

He had some idea what the last part meant, but asked for an explanation, anyway. Just for the sake of hearing her say it.

"I'll expand on the last part later. Only if you pay close attention to the remainder of my notes. The only time that it is acceptable to stop in the middle of a turn is if the roadway becomes suddenly obstructed. Or if the asshole in front of you slams on their brakes. No, that doesn't make you an asshole. But not everyone on the road will be as lovely and accommodating as Randy the Garbageman was today. You should also slow down before making turns, but everyone has trouble with that at first. And another thing, driving with your left foot on the brake and your right foot on the gas may seem like a good idea, but it's not. As far as the glare from the dashboard is concerned, we'll have to find you some shades. But you might end up distracting all of the women on the road if we do that…"

He arched his left eyebrow, a small tick of his that Marigold had recently grown to anticipate and adore. "Because you'll look sexy in shades, that's why…" she swept his hair aside and pecked his cheek.

"To be fair, you're quite a distraction, yourself…"

They rubbed noses innocently for only a moment before falling into a fiery kiss of passion. Something had changed between them recently. Marigold's schedule had freed up again and her mood had lightened. Tavington's contemplations of the marriage proposal hadn't ended. In fact, they had grown more visceral and complex. They were both desperate for distractions, something to keep their minds off what had been foretold. Instead of discussing the very real truth that their time together was growing short, they turned their attention towards flirtation and making their mutual desire for one another known.

Indeed, seeing what was once a beautiful waltz towards the union that they had both dreamt of for hundreds of years turn lecherous caused guilt. Halfway into Marigold's post-lesson "reward" in the back seat, they stopped themselves and drove home in silence. They had become two tentative virgins, it seemed, terrified of their own expectations and the idea of letting the other one down.

Even in this awkward silence, they remained inseparable. They drank their morning coffee together, took walks every time the sun came out, dined out and dined in together, listened to records and read by the fireside and, as had become their custom, fell asleep each night in the other's arms. This vicious cycle continued well into the final weeks of October. Not once did they discuss it, not once did they take their intimacy further. They were deadlocked. That is, until Marigold's conscience pushed her over the edge…

The smell of the bonfire fused with the cold October air filled her with fond memories. She recalled a time when love and desire were simple things, free to manifest themselves at their will. The forest that surrounded them looked very much like that certain spot along the Oregon Coast in the low light. She nestled closer to Tavington as they reclined in the open bed of her Suburu Baja. Moxie prowled the ground below, waiting for Tommy to toss another smoldering marshmallow across the wooded vicinity. He originally aimed to hit Tavington, but hadn't been successful so far.

"You're sleeping in my bed tonight," Marigold nipped the edge of his ear. She applied frim pressure as she ventured lower on his torso, lower than she ever had before.

"And why is that, my love?" He whispered, feeling the inevitable sting of arousal as it began to boil in his bloodstream.

"Because," her touch moved up his body, to his relief (and despair). As she pulled in closer, her fingers raked through his long strands of hair and her face disappeared between his neck and left shoulder. "Your hair smells like a campfire. And it's turning me on."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by that, Miss Casey." His words were innocent, but his body language wasn't. Marigold had learned to read him and secretly loved the way that the flesh on his brow and neck blushed and warmed when she did something that he found stimulating. "Would you mind elaborating?"

After glancing across the campsite to ensure that Tommy or anyone else for that matter weren't nearby, she pulled the soft, fleece blanket over them and continued her exploration. "I can give you a hint." Her fingers, quick and clever, unfastened the closures of his jeans. She kissed the corner of his warm throat and sighed with approval as he moved into her touch. "Know what I mean now?" The crackling of footfalls on the leafy trail that led to where they had parked caused Marigold's hand to shy away. "Let's head home. There are plenty of places to pull over. Mox doesn't like riding in the cabin much, anyway."

The five minutes that they drove in search of a spot both hidden and secluded was torturous. Once the ignition was turned off and the lights were dimmed, there was no stopping them. They moved to the back seat, seeking the flesh beneath their clothes. His hands found her first this time and she unfolded in his palm like a flower. No words were necessary, he knew that she was ready for him. With one thrust, he filled her body with his own desire. Their two hearts pounded so loudly that their exchange could nearly be heard by each of them; an endless murmur to underscore their harmonizing breaths.

Marigold retreated into stillness, selfishly, perhaps. She wanted to feel, to experience the force of his climax in its entirety with a clear mind. Although she begged him not to stop, her voice seemed lost amidst the noise of his breath. He was nearly there, nearly breaking the surface between struggle and pleasure, on the verge of pure ecstasy. His heart pounded deeply against Marigold's bare breast until- silence. Stillness. His weight crashed down, pinning her to the seat. She tried and failed to reach for the cabin light, but an intruding moonbeam told her all she needed to know. His red face had paled, his eyes were empty and sightless and his expression that had in one moment been both adoring and fierce, relaxed into nothingness in the next.

The shock that entered her heart provided her passage from terror. It had only been a dream. The sight of her bedroom ceiling and the soothing sound of his restful body inhaling and exhaling were more than merely relieving factors. An eruption of silent tears chilled her face. She wiped them away and looked at the man beside her. Her hand was in the same place that it had been all night, clasped tightly in his. As his chest rose and fell, so did their hands, like two carefree lovers rafting upon a favorable tide. Marigold continued to watch, garnering reassurance from every heartbeat and breath that he produced. He seemed to know what she was thinking, even as he slept. He continued to soothe her until her vigil finally caused him to stir.

"Marigold, my love? What has happened?" He whispered, tenderly kissing the tear tracks that were cooling all across her face.

She didn't want to say. Severing him from his dream was sinful enough. "I love you so much it hurts sometimes. That is all."

As he pulled her in, an intense aching overcame his heart. He didn't mean to cause her pain. And yet, here she was, crying in the middle of the night again. "What can I do for you? I'll do anything if it means that I can ease your suffering."

"Be with me always." Their embrace tightened.

"I am with you now. Can't that be enough? When will we be happy again, my love?"

Marigold's guilt swelled once more. Their silence over the last few weeks was as bad as a lie; they had been dishonest with one another for far too long. "I dreamt of you tonight, William. It's difficult to say… I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Tell me what you dreamt."

She longed to retreat into his chest and hide there for the rest of the night, but the tender strokes and kisses that he placed across her hairline encouraged her to speak. It was an act of not only bravery, but love to look into his eyes during this painful reveal of the inner workings of her mind. "You died in my arms in the… in the height of our lovemaking. Why?" Marigold expected he would turn away in embarrassment, but no.

He smiled with acceptance, with love. "Nightmares leave us alone with our fears. Once they see that our masks are down and we are at our most vulnerable… they surround us, consume us, but only for a little while. You fear intimacy and you fear loss. This was nothing more than both of those fears moving past you in the night. I know those fears well, Marigold. Because I've battled with them, too. But there is a truth between us that is greater than what haunts us. Something that you told me after defying death itself. We will always find one another."

A narrow beam of light stemming from the moon pushed through their bedroom window. At first, its similarities to the moonbeam from her dream frightened Marigold. But as it grazed the features of his handsome face, it seemed to dance with the gentle love within his blue eyes. He was alive and he was hers. "I'm just so afraid that I've been careless with the time that I have with you."

"This is forever." He assured her, pressing his forehead to hers. "What we do with our forever is up to us. We can live and die in fear, anger, regret… or we can savor every moment. My heart chose you because it knew that you could teach me how to do the latter. You have taught me how to be joyful and thankful. Don't fall into despair, my bright angel." They grew silent, if only for a moment. "Sleep now," Tavington coaxed, "I will meet you in my dreams."

Her heart melted. What's more is she knew that he was right. There was no way that the love that he made her feel was anything shy of eternal.

When they awoke several hours later, the sun was pouring into the room. Marigold rubbed her eyes and unplugged her phone from the wall. Sunday.

"We could close the curtains and oversleep?" She suggested, but Tavington had already snuck downstairs earlier to prepare her cup of coffee and returned to her side without a sound. It was waiting for her in its usual bumblebee mug on her nightstand.

"I have a surprise for you." Once the coffee was in her hands, he positioned her back against his chest and closed his arms around her. "But you have to drive us there."

Marigold laughed; preoccupied with the sensation of the thick, warm socks on his feet pressing against her cold toes. She longed to remain in this position for as long as she could, but indulged him, anyway. "I like surprises. And being the designated driver."

"Yes, I figured you would…"

"May I ask where we're going?"

He pressed his face against her crown and breathed. Her hair carried its usual floral fragrance, a spellbinding infusion of roses and lavender. "Charleston. There's something from my past that I would like to share with you…"

 **Author's Note: Thank you for bearing with. I struggled with how detailed to make Marigold's "nightmare" and ended up cutting out a lot during my final read-through. Hopefully you can see why I put it in here and its significance. I bumped the rating up to M for fear of deletion. This story is kind of my "baby" at the moment and it's no secret that it has some really heavy themes in it, so it is for the better. I hope you guys don't give up on it after this minor change! Whether there's sexual content, drug usage, violence, etc. I try very hard to keep my writing tasteful. These things are in there to connect you, the reader, to the human experience, not simply for shock factor. Rant over. On a lighter (maybe?) note, I'm glad you guys like my cast of goofy Waterfordians! It's a town of assorted nuts, to be sure. Kind of my way of paying homage to my city (Portland, OR). There might even be a "Keep Waterford Weird" slogan thrown in later on. Look for Chapter 15 this weekend! X**


	15. Heartache in the Harbor

They stopped at a gas station just outside of Waterford on their way to the interstate. Although it was supposed to be the last sunny day for a while, Marigold and Tavington sifted through the shades at the counter, trying on nearly every pair the small store had to offer. She told him about the rockabilly band that she and Giselle started in high school called "Gas Station Sunglasses" and the performances that they gave at nearly every local fair.

"So, as you can tell," she grinned widely, removing a pair of purple rhinestone wayfarers from his face and swapping them out for the same make in black matte, "gas station sunnies and I have a long history with one another. Those look incredible on you, by the way. With a ponytail and a flannel, you'll look like a west coast fine arts student! Maybe we should get you an earring… just one."

"Are you hearing this?" Tavington asked the very elderly cashier. "This woman is turning me into her fantasy! She'll have me sporting… hiking gear?… next!"

The woman smiled. Regardless of age, it was more than evident that she thought Tavington was adorable. "I'd say he's enough of a fantasy to begin with…"

"See, Marigold?" He called from over the fixtures to where she had raced off to in search of dried fruit. "I told you I was a catch, but you never listen!"

"Don't inflate his ego any more, it's dangerous," Marigold winked, holding up a small selection of bags and heading towards checkout. "Okay, Hot Stuff. Looks like it's going to have to be banana chips and Raisinets. You'll like them, they're chocolatey. You still have the sparkling water we're going to share? Schweet!" She smoothed her hand over his shoulder before proceeding to pay.

"You know, you're one of the cutest couples to ever come through here. Go ahead and put your card in the chip reader now, Sweetie."

"Thank you," Marigold glanced at her name tag while the payment was processing, "Gladys. We're very fortunate."

"Bit of an age difference," Gladys raved, "but people don't do long term anymore! I'd say for flingers, you two are just peachy! My advice to you? Take a lot of pictures, go to a lot of parties, have a lot of sex-"

"Thank you so much for helping us out today!" Marigold snatched the bag and Tavington's hand in one elaborate sweep.

The moment they stepped out of the store, they practically combusted with laughter. Tavington hoisted Marigold onto his back and spun her around several times on the way to her car.

"Thanks for the lift, Old Man," she chuckled as he placed her on the hood, kissing her mouth deeply.

As he moved away, his laughter ceased. The sunlight moved playfully across her small, childlike features. It created a thousand different shades when it merged with her hair as she leaned against the windshield. Everything from her brilliant smile to the wrinkle in her tiny nose made him feel as though a lighted match had been flung into his heart. He had always believed that she was the most beautiful woman to ever draw breath, but the way that she looked right now with her long strands of hair spread all around her surpassed all notions of beauty on every scale.

"I am so in love with you," he confessed. His hand moved to the pocket that the ring was hiding in. Safely, against his beating heart. This certainly wasn't where he had intended to propose, but the way that he felt for her in this moment convinced him otherwise. "Marigold?" She continued to laugh, but only slightly. "Marigold?" The second time around, he managed to calm her. "Marigold Victoria Casey, I know far well that I have never been worthy of-"

"Yoo-hoo!? Lil' age-gap'd cute potato pies!" The boisterous, gravelly voice of Gladys sang from across the lot, "You left your card in my chip reader!"

Tavington sighed and extended his hand. "Thank you, Gladys, for returning our… ostentatiously sleek and modern method of payment." Again, laughter overcame Marigold. He laughed along for a moment and then, helped her up. "Right then, to Charleston we go?"

"To Charleston we go!" Marigold exclaimed, tossing him his new sunglasses and climbing into the driver's seat.

As they headed down the road, he remained a ball of nerves. She didn't know what was going on, but felt something wasn't right. So, she used the last red light in Waterford as an opportunity to hold his hand. She would have held it for the entire day trip, but the fact that she strongly enforced the 10 o'clock, 2 o'clock hand position during their driving lessons contradicted her desire.

The interstate was bustling, even for a Sunday. Everyone around them were bolting at lightning speeds from one traffic jam to another. Honking horns and weavers were rampant.

"Two days until Halloween, I suspect everybody is out shopping," she grumbled as they moved into the least congested lane. "Giselle included, I'm sure. Probably buying out the entire lot at Craft Warehouse…"

"Are we going to an event that night? It seems to me that everyone is doing something! Why, we even held banquets and masquerade balls back in the 18th century!"

Marigold grinned, "Really? I think they're having something down at the skating rink. Nothing too fancy, of course. We can go if you'd like. It's been years since I've attended. So, it would be a pleasant surprise for Phoebe and Ben… Tess will probably be there, too." She sensed his question long before he could ask it. "Halloween is a difficult time for me. I like to decorate South a little, but that's usually all that I do each year."

Tavington fiddled with the lid on their sparkling water. He saw that she was growing tense and shuffled through his usual 'subject change' options. If Halloween was a difficult time for Marigold, perhaps he should reconsider the timing of this outing as well. "What is your favorite thing to do in Charleston?"

"Well, they have a wonderful theatre district. I already told you about the theatre that the Zipps run. They're still in tech for their latest production, so we probably couldn't swing by today. But I'll show it to you if we have time. How about you, William?"

"Apart from overthrowing the entire town and becoming respected and feared far and wide?" Her smile warmed his soul and gave him the courage to proceed. "I wasn't able to attend any productions the last time that I was there, but perhaps we could see a show tonight. If any of the facilities can accommodate us last minute, that is."

"I'd like that very much." The traffic had worsened all around them and they found themselves in a dead halt.

"Perhaps traveling today wasn't the best idea…"

"On the contrary," she took his hand in hers, "it feels wonderful to get out of Waterford for a while. Especially with you. We should plan little day trips more often."

"I met a man named Earl recently who owns a corral," he mused, peeling mindlessly at the corner of the banana chip bag, "perhaps we could go riding together sometime."

"Earl Appleby?" Marigold laughed, taking the bag and opening it for Tavington. "I had no idea he was still living! You know, the first time he walked into Coffee n' San-tea, Giselle thought that he was Sam Elliot and made him sign her dishwashing apron?! Earl caught on and totally milked it! There's probably still one in the back room that has his forged signature on it!"

"Sam Elliot?"

"Remember the cowboy from The Big Lebowski? The one who sat down at the bar in the bowling alley and ordered a sarsaparilla? And you had no idea what that was, so I bought you one from the market and you said it tasted like boot polish?!"

"Gracious!" Tavington exclaimed, balancing several Raisinets on a banana chip and eating it whole. "The resemblance is uncanny…"

"I'd love to go riding with you! It will give you a chance to teach me something! Think of it as a trade for the driving lessons."

"Do I still get the perks?" He made another one of his peculiar little creations and passed it to Marigold with pride. Naturally, some of the Raisinets fell beneath her seat, causing him to blush from head to toe.

"You still get all the perks. Wow. That's a surprisingly amazing combination of flavors. Whoever would have guessed it?!"

Tavington constructed several more and handed them across the panel with caution. "Yes, yes! One could safely say that you and I go together like… crunchy bananas and… chocolatey dehydrated grapes!"

The further away from the city they drove, the better the traffic conditions became. Tavington and Marigold alike marveled at the landscape and the tiny speckling of farms that could be seen amongst the rolling hills. She knew without explanation that he was incredibly fond of the largest field of wildflowers that they drove through. Fortunately, most of the flowers hadn't gone dormant for the season yet and their many colorful petals were basking in the sun.

"Most of those flowers are on the Applebys' property," Marigold noted, "Freddie, Earl's son, owns a piece of land that neighbors his father's farm. Unlike Earl, Freddie is a complete badass. You can actually see him riding his motorcycle downtown sometimes. His helmet has a custom-made cutout in it for his beard. And I don't mean your regular, everyday beard. This thing is ZZ Top-grade!" Tavington was clearly confused. "That just means that it's really, really long. Like halfway to his knees! Anyway, you know how the wildflower honey that I have in my pantry is from a farm called "The Apple and the Bee"? Freddie is a beekeeper and partnered with the neighborhood market a couple of years ago. Which is nice, because I only used to be able to get his product at fairs. I actually used to take beekeeping classes from him every day before I graduated high school."

"Really?" Tavington rubbed the fabric of her yellow cardigan between his fingertips. It was her most frequently worn article of clothing with clusters of honeybees woven throughout. "That explains a lot. My little hummingbird loves honeybees."

Marigold threw him a glance of embarrassment- and admiration, "Your little hummingbird used to dream of being a beekeeper! I forgot how much I missed it out here."

"Perhaps," he smiled, scarcely caring that he was getting ahead of himself, "perhaps one day, we could relocate to the country. I could have my plants and you could have your bees."

She turned her eyes to him again. His sunglasses were smoothed back on the top of his head, leaving his eyes completely visible. A strange sadness wove its way into this brief glance; a strange sadness, but also a strange hope. "Let's plan on it."

True, Waterford had been crowded, but Charleston was tenfold. Marigold lucked out and managed to park several blocks away from the theatre district that she had spoken of. It was late in the afternoon when they arrived and, since Tavington's "surprise" wasn't time-sensitive, the couple stopped for a quick lunch at a downtown bistro. There were many historical landmarks than even Tavington himself could pick out in the skyline. The location that he sought, however, would prove challenging to find. His intention was to locate a very specific place in the harbor. Namely, where the boat that had carried him from England had docked. His proposal would be a rebirth, a renewal of his life in America.

His nerves got the better of him during their walk. Marigold had never seen him so distraught and yet, she remained completely unaware of his intentions. She was anticipating something more along the lines of a history lesson. A tour of landmarks that he had made for himself during the war. His nerves? She merely wagered that she would disapprove of the brutal tactics that he used in his former life and perhaps love him less when the day was through. On the contrary, the idea of learning more about him- his family, his dreams and ambitions excited her greatly. Initiating a conversation to lead into this supposed "tour" of Charleston seemed like the best route to take.

"Did you always want to be a soldier?" She asked, bundling close to him as they tore through the crowded downtown district.

"Not at all. In the end, it was an amalgamation of peer pressure and a strong desire to leave Liverpool in search of adventure that drew me in. I had never been so good at anything in all my life and well, we crave what gives us results, you know? Combat and eventually… commanding became addictions."

"And before then? When you were a boy in Liverpool?"

His eyes dropped to the ground and a smile so bashful and endearing graced his beautiful face. "I longed to be a farmer. To plant my own crops and watch them grow." He caught sight of Marigold's comforting gaze and it fueled his confession. "My father was a man of esteem, of law. He would never see his son in such a lowly occupation. When the time was right, he shipped me off to Oxford. That was where the real trouble started."

"I imagine you were very spirited. College brings out the beast in all of us. Even a mousy little birdwatching, book reading, prospective beekeeper like me! What did you do when you weren't studying law?"

The street that they were headed down seemed to answer her question- for both of them. After turning a corner, they found themselves face to face with a large wooden wall that had been assaulted over and over again with paper flyers.

"I would attend the theatre… probably more than any young man should." Tavington moved down each of the haphazard rows as best he could, searching for a title that he knew.

"They do a lot of musicals here in town," Marigold read his thoughts, "I'll see if I can find us a classic, okay? Perhaps some Shakespeare?"

"What is your favorite musical?" As always, his only concern was making her happy.

"Oh, that's like picking a favorite child!" She covered an advertisement for "Hamilton" with her shoulder; that would be the epitome of awkward dates. "Probably "Grease". It was the first show I was ever in and the music is divine! Giselle was in it, too. That's how we became best friends. You know what they say?! Once you're in a show together, you're as good as family!"

Tavington was completely charmed. "I had a friend like that once, too."

"John Andre?" She believed sadness would be inevitable upon the mention of his ill-fated friend. But, as he nodded his head in confirmation, he couldn't stop smiling. He loved seeing the ways in which his own life paralleled with Marigold. Perhaps they really weren't so different, so mismatched after all...

They made a quick stop at Theatre Zipp's box office and Marigold purchased two handsomely discounted tickets for next week's showing of Thornton Wilder's "Our Town". The remainder of the price, she payed up as a donation for the facility. Tech week prevented them from going inside, but they were still able to briefly admire from the sidewalk the stained-glass window that Marigold had such a strong connection to.

The walk to the harbor was equally as pleasant. Marigold synopsized most of "Our Town" for him as they walked hand-in-hand beneath the autumn foliage. Sails from the vessels that were docked nearby began to materialize from over the tops of the trees. The moment he smelled the ocean, his heart began to race. He had pulled her out of bed this morning and made her drive all day. Maybe what he was feeling earlier was cold feet. Maybe he would find the location that he was after and be so overcome with the need for a fresh start that he would do it. Yes, yes, he would! It was decided. In mere minutes, Marigold Casey would surely become his future wife.

There was one final road to cross before they reached their destination. The countdown on the sidewalk was ticking away.

"We can make it!" He took her hand as anticipation got the better of him and they ran into the wind.

During this playful race, Marigold felt a tug on her hand and heard a faint lag in his footfalls. Before she knew it, she was standing upright and he was sprawled out on the pavement on top of the crosswalk's slanting lines.

"William?" Her first instinct was to laugh. "William?!" She fell to his side and turned him over on his back. Several people started to honk when the light turned green, but she didn't notice at all. She could tell that he was breathing, but as his color shifted, his breaths grew shallow. She cried for help, surely there was someone in the busy intersection who cared. But to everyone around them, he was in the way and nothing more. "Please, William, please! Don't! Not now, not ever…" The car horns continued to blare. Pure impatience caused two or three drivers to proceed, anyway and they barely missed Marigold and Tavington as they wove around them carelessly. Finally, law enforcement arrived. None of this seemed to matter. The world that surrounded Marigold was only a blur, all she could see was her William dying before her eyes.

The ambulance arrived shortly after and with it, a thousand questions that Marigold couldn't answer. Things like his date of birth, known allergies, social security number. Proof that he was a human and able to receive any sort of care. She had no answers, no proof. She was unable to provide with them anything out of everything that was required to save him.

"You're doctors!" She cried to the eldest technician as he refused to puncture Tavington's vein with an IV. "Nobody is supposed to stand idly by when they see someone dying on the street. The same should go for you! You have everything in here to save him and all the right training. I beg you!"

A younger technician was asked to check his heart rate with a stationary stethoscope. If anything, it would quiet her down for a minute or two. "Rick," he called to the man in charge who was still up in arms with Marigold. "Rick, I think she's right. This looks like heart failure to me. We should prepare a crash cart."

An argument erupted between them. Marigold merely looked on in desperation. Doctors weren't supposed to act like this, even if their patient couldn't legally be admitted. It was the cruelest irony she had ever been placed inside. She had to save him, had to fight in his favor- but how? She barely knew CPR, she couldn't even find a pulse on her own wrist in elementary school health class! So, she did the only thing that she knew how to do, she spoke. First to Tavington and then to Rick.

"I will get you documentation. All the documentation that you need. He is a friend of my brother's and works for the CIA. They both do. Don't believe me?" She removed her wallet, snapped it open and presented them with her (other) brother's card. "This has all of his credentials, his extension, you name it. As for this man, we only just met this afternoon and I think he's probably undercover. Give me five minutes to make a phone call to Washington when we arrive. Five minutes."

The ambulance eased to a halt and a crew of doctors dashed in. Several of them started to reprimand Rick for not readying their patient for care. As everyone flocked into the hospital building, one of the doctors who gave Rick hell earlier pulled Marigold to the side.

"We're going to do everything we can to save your friend," he said, placing his hand on Marigold's, naturally, she pulled hers away, "I apologize for the negligence that he received on the way here."

Marigold looked over his shoulder to where Tavington had disappeared to. "I will get you everything you need." Her tone was incredibly stern, but her body was trembling like a leaf in the wind. "Let me make my phone call now, please."

The doctor nodded. He truly was trying to be polite, but Marigold was shaken up and distant. She headed out into the parking lot and, when nobody was looking, ducked behind a large pickup truck.

"Jake?" She whispered to the voice on the other end of the line. "Yeah, howdy to you, too. Jake, I'm in trouble. I know Jack and I aren't on the best terms, but I need you to be a mediator between us, okay?" With his permission, Marigold proceeded. "Do you remember when Henry and I wanted to get married and we couldn't because he had no paperwork? I need to do the same thing for William."

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Sis!? You've known this guy for less than a month, marriage doesn't even-"

"No," she interrupted, her voice broke, "he's dying. They think it's heart failure. If they don't have something, some proof of who he is and where he comes from, they can't give him the care that he needs. Please-"

"He almost lost his job last time, Mare. This will drive an even bigger wedge-"

"-I love William," Marigold's whisper grew in volume, "any repercussions from this will fall on me this time. I would gladly spend the rest of my life in a cell. Even if they can't save him, just knowing that I was able to give him a chance…"

"Marigold?" His voice was weighted and grim. "I'm dialing him now. I don't know if three-way calls are an option since he blocked your number, but…" As Jack's "Hello" chimed in, Marigold's blood pressure skyrocketed "Jack?"

She gripped tightly to her phone, listening as silently as possible as Jake explained the situation. Every time the conversation grew quiet, she feared that Jack had disconnected entirely. Towards the end, Jake asked Marigold to reiterate, word for word, what she had said before. It was the longest ten seconds of her life. Afterwards, Jack hung up. Without any explanation at all. Marigold and Jake remained quiet for a few seconds.

"Marigold? I am sorry. I truly-"

She switched it off before he could finish her sentence. Remaining in the parking lot until she was done crying was appealing, but she had to return to William. So instead, she sprinted back to the building as quickly as her legs could carry her. She had only just reached reception when a text tone chimed from Jack, asking for the facility's fax number.

It wasn't for another ten minutes that the fax from Washington was received. It confirmed that William Banastre Tavington was born on the August 21st 1977 in Liverpool. Information on his family, education and work was also included. There were many gaps to fill up, but Jack was still working on them and this would have to suffice for the time being.

Once Tavington was admitted, Marigold raced to his side. He was barely awake, barely alive. But she knew that he held on just for her. He was booked for exploratory surgery after visiting hours, so this gave them time together. Every now and then, he would fade back in and seemed to understand that she was there beside him. During their final hour, he spoke. His sentences were sparse and disconnected. The only thing that Marigold grasped was that he "would come back to her this time, but someday would not".

"You will always come back," she vowed, kissing him for the final time that evening, "even if I have to reach my hand into heaven or hell and pull you out."

"Our fate has been sealed," Tavington protested, his voice failing with his strength.

"Our fate is ours to make, William. Just look! Earlier, you were a lost cause and now, you have modern medicine on your side! I am going to save you…"


	16. Death isn't Silent

There wasn't a moment in the night when Marigold allowed herself to rest. The closest hotel with a vacancy was two blocks from the hospital. She persuaded- nay, begged the clerk to find her a room that had at least a partial view of the tall, unsightly building wherein the love of her life was fighting his most brutal battle. With the curtains wide open and the righthand corner of the hospital glowing like a beacon in the night, she remained seated upright at the cheap, particle board hotel desk until dawn.

She didn't want to worry Giselle, although Jake surely would inform her before too long. So, she sent her a quick, vague text requesting that she check on Moxie at least once throughout the day. That was the only contact that Marigold had with another human until she dropped the key off at reception. Nobody from the hospital had called her with word on how his surgery went. They were in no way obligated to because were neither related or married.

Asking for an update on his condition was the emotional equivalent of standing in front of a firing squad. Once his room number was in hand, however, much of her anxiety melted away. She found him resting with his face turned towards a small open window in the corner of a cramped room. The heavy machinery that surrounded him and the bed that looked as though it were nothing short of a flattened punching bag- made him appear just as out of place as he surely felt.

The nurse had told Marigold that he was still coming out of sedation and would require more silence than conversation. Merely seeing him, hearing his breath and hearing his heartbeat, even if its sounds were computerized, encouraged her. If only for a little while. She listened closely to each beat as they were fed through the monitor's small speaker and placed her hand against her own heart. Sure enough, they were going back and forth, singing their sweet duet just as they always had.

"I know you probably can't hear me," she placed her head on his pillow, imagining that this was just another morning in his arms, "you might not even know that I am here with you right now. But maybe we can pretend that this is nothing more than a bad dream. Remember? We're alone with our fears right now, but only for a little while. This is nothing more than a passing moment in our forever."

"They gave me a timeline," he responded, opening his eyes just long enough to admire her face in the soft morning light, "My commanders were right. I always was too ambitious. In battle and in love."

"What do you mean?" Their hands clasped on the cool, thin sheets.

Tavington fought for one more glance at the woman before him, but he was quickly descending into yet another empty dream. "My heart is sick. It can only last so long."

"Then I will refuse to leave you for however long we have." Marigold declared with all her strength.

"It isn't long enough, my love. To do all the things that we planned to do. For the future that you always have deserved and that life has so cruelly denied you all these years." His eyes, just as dazzling as ever continued to fight against their desire for rest. Seeing her as he spoke these words was worth the fight. "And that is why, my beautiful, joyful Marigold- that is why I must set you free."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying my heart can no longer hold the weight of love. What you did for me yesterday, by giving me a silent, comfortable space to live out the remainder of my days, only proves how selfless you are. There never was a soul worthier of happiness than your own. And unfortunately, there is no happiness to be found in a future with me."

She remained unmoved. "Can't we talk about this after you rest a while? Please?"

"Eighteen months at most," he continued, ignoring her question. "The very most. It's more likely that I'll be gone within a year. The sooner that we part, the less pain there will be."

"For you?"

"For me."

Marigold inched away from him, falling back into the chair that she had been sitting on the edge of. Tavington had to look away, he couldn't stand to see the devastation on her face.

"If that is what you wish," said she, "then I cannot argue."

She pondered every possibility, every sequence of words that might deliver her from this sudden, seemingly final conversation that Tavington was enforcing. No "goodbye", no kiss, no last embrace would be sufficient. Nothing would ever be able to close this wound. She decided on silence. The only sound in the room was his heartbeat. Although she knew very well that her own was pounding, breaking in her chest, Tavington's heart seemed to have become a soloist. They were out of sync, broken off from one another at his own command.

Marigold listened for a moment longer before preparing to make leave. If she could. As she stood, his rhythm changed to what sounded like a painful chaos. What was once a march suddenly became a stampede. It was unlike anything she'd ever heard before, unlike any sound she ever knew a heart could make. Could this be what had happened to him yesterday? What his heart was doomed to repeat until the day that it finally defeated him? She searched the room for the call button but before she could act, his pulse steadied out into the soul-piercing screech of a flatline.

Disoriented, she tried with all her might to reach him, but the incoming doctors ripped them apart. She was quickly tossed into the hallway, discarded, condemned to listen to the decision of his fate as it unfolded behind a drawn curtain. The charges grew in their intensity and still the flatline prevailed. Marigold couldn't cry. How could she cry if she couldn't breathe? All the lights in the hallway grew splotchy and her knees grew weak. Surely, she would have collapsed if she hadn't been caught in the last minute by a pair of familiar arms.

"Mare? I came as quickly as I could," Giselle clung tightly to Marigold, aiding her fight for balance. In one moment's time, she could assess her best friend's behavior and the failing resuscitation in the next room. "I'm here, Mare. Whatever happens, I'm here…"

The lights stopped dimming and the earth stood still. Silence pushed into the space once more. The only noise was the flatline ringing through, boundless and eternal. The nameless voice that followed confirmed the battle's end. "Time of death, 8:57 AM."

…

Death is not silent. Not really. The first time that William Tavington experienced it, he slipped from the loving embrace of his Annabelle and into the wooded vicinity behind Marigold's schoolhouse. The second time, he was transported from the undeniable sensation of his heart breaking to a blast of cold wind and a terrible sickness in his stomach. When he opened his eyes, he was crouched over the leeward railing of a mighty wooden ship. The throbbing in his head accompanied by the violent spray of the sea was detrimental to his balance. A wave from below pushed him forward and before he had the opportunity to collect himself, Tavington realized that the only thing keeping him aboard was the rough hands of another sailor.

"Right then," the man said aloud as he flung poor Tavington against the cabin like a ragdoll, "that was the second time today, Cornet Tavington. Once more and we shall be obligated to leave you for the sharks to polish off!"

Laughter entered his ears from every direction. He wasn't so much bothered by the fact that the surrounding soldiers were laughing at him, or even that amongst them was that dreadful O'Hara who would soon become a thorn in his side in the years to come- no, he was instead troubled by the realness of this memory. He remembered lunging after his savior, pinning him against the briny deck and beating his face into a bloodied pulp. This action was more than justified, certainly. How dare a man so weak, so insignificant outrank and ridicule he? All that Tavington could do right now was stare. The young Butcher who made such a statement before his commanders all those years ago was dead even now. It was not so much Annabelle's dismantling of his wicked tendencies as it was the realization of who the man before him was.

"Major Andre," Tavington managed a quick, clumsy bow, "I would like to express my gratitude-"

"Gratitude," Andre's pretty features distorted into a sneer, "gratitude will not make you a better soldier." As he turned to face his onlookers, Andre snorted what hardly passed for a laugh. "Not vomiting yourself into a skeleton or, better yet, simply not falling overboard on your first day at sea, however…"

Tavington recalled each encounter that followed. His reaction the first time around might have humiliated Andre; but it took a hailstorm of fists pounding down on him for Tavington to gain his respect in the first place. He searched his soul for that same aggression but found none. All that he could feel was remorse for his lost friend. The man who from that day in history onward was his fiercest competition and would become, after a series of grueling months in the colonies, his dearest companion. The picture faded to blackness and Tavington could only guess what impact this moment would have on the course of history. Had he saved Andre simply by changing the way in which their friendship had formed? Had he done anything at all? Surely, there were many things left unresolved.

…

Marigold wrestled her way out of Giselle's grasp. Once free, the last threshold- the collection of doctors who had flocked to his bedside came next. Something inside, something stronger than grief, told her what she had to do. She tried not to look at him, tried not to be distracted by the unjust emptiness that had claimed every inch of his sweet face. Her hands found his bare chest still warm and red from the paddles. She hardly needed to touch or even press down on the empty cavern wherein his mighty heart once sounded. A beat, then two, then three seemed to leap into her hand. Each time, its precious echo resounded in her palm like the singular voice of a choir rising to the ceiling of a cathedral.

The staff, even Giselle didn't notice what happened until his lungs filled, swiftly and on their own. Marigold didn't react to anything until he opened his eyes, until they both made the connection. Just as he had for her, Marigold- no team of trained doctors, no modern contraption, but Marigold alone was the one to bring him back.

"Don't you understand, William?" She wept, caring not for the noises of wonder and disbelief that surrounded them. "This is why we can never be parted…"

Again, there were questions, speculations from the staff. Again, this mysterious bond between them read to the world around them as nothing more than a miracle.

Tavington wasn't strong enough to speak and fell back into a deep sleep once the commotion died down. This time, however, he kept a firm grasp on Marigold's hand as he slept. She stayed at the edge of her chair while her head remained on his pillow. Giselle was close by, not for Tavington's benefit so much as for Marigold's. When she saw that she was beginning to shake in the cold room, Giselle reached for the flannel that was stuffed in the corner with everything else that he had on his person when he was admitted. The flannel was barely draped over her shoulders when the ring fell from the pocket.

Neither of them knew, neither of them stirred. It was Giselle and the ring together, alone in the quiet room. She swept it off the floor and examined it closer. There was no denying that it was an engagement ring and that it was intended for her best friend. Her conscience twisted and turned, she couldn't allow this to happen. She couldn't possibly see Marigold entangled in another ill-fated marriage. Deep down, however, Giselle knew that she couldn't prevent it. Not after witnessing not once, but two impossible miracles caused by nothing more than the love between them.

When Marigold awoke mid-day, Giselle was quick to respond to the moan that her best friend made.

"Serves you right," Giselle said carefully, "that can't be good for anybody's neck."

"I don't want to leave him," her voice was pained, she clearly had yet to recover from earlier. Assuming she would ever be able to in the first place. "It's going to happen again, Giselle. And I'm so afraid…"

"What's going to happen again? I still don't understand any of this, Mare. How you two are able to-"

"Feel my heartbeat. Put your hand on my chest and feel my heartbeat," she could see Giselle hesitate, "just do it, weirdo."

As Giselle followed Marigold's unusual order, her face changed. "Yours beats and then his beats… it's like they're taking turns. Is that why you are able to-"

"I think so. At least, I know it has something to do with it. There's something between us that reaches beyond this world. Neither of us have a name for it yet. Perhaps we'll never have the chance to…" As Marigold spoke, she watched Tavington with fondness. When she turned to speak to Giselle once more, however, her face changed. "We have a year together. A little bit more if we're lucky."

"But Marigold, wouldn't you be able to do what you did-"

"I don't know. I hope so," she managed to smile through her tears, "hope will have to do for now."

"You need to lay out all of your options, Mare." Giselle knelt on the floor. It seemed it was up to her to breathe some sense into this impossible situation. "You need to decide what you are going to do between now and when he- if he…" she reached for Marigold's hand. "You need to be smart. You need… you need to get out of this room for at least five minutes and get yourself some tea or something. Okay? Spend a little bit of time away from Billy. I'll stay with him and text you if anything comes up. Make yourself a plan for the next year that works for you-" despite Marigold's reluctance, Giselle managed to pull her onto her feet.

"I don't want to leave him," Marigold reiterated, still clinging to his hand.

"I know," she coaxed, "you are devoted to him. It is your job to look after him. But isn't it also my job to look after you? If you don't start taking time for yourself at the beginning of what is sure to be a very challenging year, you might end up losing yourself entirely. And I will not see that happen. Go. Just for a few minutes. Get me a coffee while you're at it."

A smile. After a brief hug, Marigold headed to the cafeteria, phone in hand. Once her footsteps faded just far enough down the noisy hall, Giselle shook Tavington's shoulder with harshness. His eyes snapped open and began their search for his beloved.

"Tell me. Do you intend on marrying my best friend? Even after everything you learned during your stay here?" She presented him with the ring. He clearly wasn't in the mood for a heated discussion. "Allow me to rephrase. Do you honestly believe that you can make her happy with what little time you have left? And then leave her behind unharmed? I've seen the way she looks at you. Losing you will destroy her. How could you possibly be so cruel?"

"I broke it off this morning," he moved, only slightly, "it nearly killed me. But she saved me, like she always does. It is the fate that binds us that is cruel. Not I."

"You made her love you, you know? You came here and you forced her into it. Propose to her for all I care, but you do not have my blessing. Or Jake's. Were her parents still alive, they'd-" she stopped herself and tucked the ring back into its original holding space. "Marriage is just one of your many options. I expect you to sit down with her and work through each and every one of those options. Do I make myself clear?"

Tavington grinned, his eyes shut tightly, "Have you forgotten what an artful conversationalist Marigold is? Fear not, we will have that talk and every talk in between." Although Giselle opened her mouth to argue, she knew that he was right.

Two days passed before he was released. He was still incredibly fragile and required constant surveillance. Marigold was able to successfully transfer his new medical records to the hospital in Waterford where he was required to make weekly visits until the doctors were confident that his regimen was stabilizing. His condition was mysterious at best. Nobody at either of the facilities had ever seen anything quite like it. The only thing that they knew for certain was that his heart had countless abnormalities and was susceptible to spontaneous attacks and failure. The similarities between their hearts that they had discovered after Marigold's brush with death troubled Tavington. She asked to be examined out of routine, but it seemed as though Tavington's heart was the weaker one. He was short on time, not she.

As they headed down the rain-soaked highway in the dark, a change of weather made for yet another traffic delay. Marigold slowed to a stop and looked over at his sleeping form in the passenger seat. She pulled his jacket, which had fallen into his lap during the drive, up and over his shoulders and gave the side of his face the softest stroke. Without the noise of the road beneath her tires, it was easier to hear him breathing. The lack of motion prompted him to shift and after several moments, awaken.

"Is that what I think it is?" He asked, staring out the newly defrosted window.

"It is. The rain turned to snow about five minutes ago. Would you like me to turn up the heater?"

Tavington smiled as she turned the dial, "I love this era. Could you imagine the catastrophes that might have transpired from installing hearths inside of carriages?"

"Or the radio! Which would be like traveling with an entire orchestra on the bench across from you!" The traffic improved, for about five seconds. "We should be home in about 20 minutes. The next exit is three miles off. So, let me know if you need to get out and stretch or if you'd like a snack or something, okay?"

He nodded slightly before reclining. Clearly, rest was more important to him than anything else right now. "Marigold?"

"Yes, my love?"

"You mentioned the radio," he could see her hand gravitating towards the button, but he reached out and cut its journey short, "would you sing for me? I understand if you're trying to concentrate on the road. But there's something… restorative, rejuvenating about your voice."

"Of course. What would you like to hear?"

He pulled his jacket closer in an attempt to cover the truth that he was still completely chilled despite the heater going at full blast. "Something about us. Something that you listen to and cannot help but think about you and I."

There were so many that she could think of. "Happy or sad?"

"Hopeful," Tavington requested, moving out of the comfort of the jacket just long enough to place his hand on her knee.

Seconds later, Marigold started to sing a song that Tavington hadn't heard before. Probably because it wasn't on any of her records. Rather, she knew it entirely from memory because it was a song from her childhood. Her voice didn't reach its usual belt and it barely contained the vibrato that she silently prided herself for having. It remained smooth as glass, a tender lullaby. She stopped before reaching the end, partly because it was a painful to sing and partly because he had drifted off halfway through.

When they made it home at last, he stayed awake just long enough for Marigold to guide him into the guest room. She crawled into bed beside him and there she remained, half-awake until morning.

…

Dusk had fallen when they reached the cemetery. Marigold made this trip yearly and since she was in Charleston on Halloween- the anniversary of her parents' mutual death, her visit was delayed by a few days. She watched Tavington in her periphery, minding his every step. The ground was covered thickly with leaves, many of which were still dampened while the others were iced over, causing the terrain to be incredibly slick. Everything around them, from the grayness of the headstones to the ankle-deep tidepools of frosted leaves to the newly vacated branches of the darkened trees- seemed a subtle homage to death itself. When they reached the location of her parents' grave she grew still. Tavington looked over and realized that she was mouthing the words to what he assumed to be a prayer. He reached for her hand and bowed his head, following her example.

"You never struck me as a religious woman," he murmured once she finished.

"I'm not. At least not in the traditional sense of the word. I've always sensed a connection to some higher power while in close proximity to nature. Never in a congregation. Then, of course, there is the time that I've spent with you. You make me believe that there is more to life… and that something comes after."

"There's one for you, too." Tavington inched towards the edge of the large but simple family headstone. Sure enough, in the farthest left-hand corner was engraved "Marigold Victoria Casey June 20, 1990-" the date of her death remained blank. Once she was gone, this was where she would spend eternity.

"I suppose that's why I wanted you to come with me today." Marigold confessed, moving into the warmth of his arms. It was a terrible conversation to have and she loathed herself for knowing that she would have to be the one to initiate it. "We've spoken of our future, William, as if it is set in stone. I would give anything- anything at all to be able to retire with you in the country. To start a family with you and grow old with you would be nothing short of living in the sweetest dream. We both know deep down that by avoiding the truth of our situation, we are doing more harm than good. I don't know how to ask you this, merely thinking it seems to be a crime against my own heart," she paused, only for a moment to collect herself- to beg her tears not to fall until her thought was concluded, "but since we only have a year… and since there is so little that I can give you between now and the time that you leave me- do I have your permission to reserve for you the space beside mine?"

Tavington hardly gave Marigold a moment to feel guilty or awkward for posing what was clearly a painful offer. "Yes. Yes, I would be honored."

 **Author's Note: I can't consciously post three wildly depressing chapters back to back without making the next one lighter. Much, much lighter. Bear with me. A silver lining is on its way and the story is far from over. X**


	17. We Need a Silver Lining!

Marigold stumbled into the kitchen, a large stack of papers in one hand and a noisy paperclip-filled mason jar in the other. She took a quick sip of coffee and proceeded to categorize and clip the papers accordingly. She assumed that Tavington was sleeping in the guest room and tried to work as quietly possible. Once the task was complete, she pulled five paper folders from her tote and started to place the papers inside- neatly, obsessively. The noise of Moxie's feet clattering against the hard floor gave away his entrance to the kitchen. He embraced Marigold warmly from behind.

"You should have asked me to make your coffee, Darling," as his arms pulled around her, Marigold noticed that he wasn't in his bed clothes at all.

She turned, preparing to kiss him good morning and to argue in favor of making her own coffee, so long as he was acclimating to his treatments and medications. He was dressed very handsomely, just as she had suspected- dark jeans, dark boots and a freshly ironed blue button down. As Marigold smoothed her hands across his dark hair, still damp from being cleaned, something delightful and memory-evoking filled her nose.

"I see you found my essential oils collection," she grinned, locating the exact spot on his neck where the fragrant patchouli oil had been dabbed and was still drying.

"I chose the one that you were running the lowest on- your most loved out of the bunch, I hope you don't mind the intrusion."

She kissed his cheek and breathed deeply, "Have you ever noticed that it smells like just about every other store on Main Street?"

"I have. I assume you're fond of it because it smells like home to you."

"Don't ever stop wearing it," Marigold whispered in his ear, working the damp smudge of patchouli into his hairline, "my past should be yours, too. Seeing as I have already given you my present and my future."

His eyes dropped to the project on the counter that Marigold had been working on. "What's this?"

"Resumes," she said casually, "I am going to have to take on two- maybe three jobs depending on the hours that they have available. Don't give me that look. It's a blessing in disguise," she opened a folder and started to move through the pages, "see? This one is for the flower shop! And here's one for the record shop! And this one… this one is for the music store, I could even give piano lessons or teach voice, if they'll have me, of course…"

He directed her hand away from the papers, kissing her knuckles softly. "It's because of my medical expenses, isn't it?"

"It's because we're a team. We help one another out. I don't want you to worry about working right now, I just want you to be comfortable and happy. I want to take care of you, William. Now... are you going to tell me what the occasion is?"

"We're going to the theatre today, remember? The matinee of "Our Town"? If we leave now, we'll still have plenty of time to get there."

Marigold retreated to her papers, "Are you sure? I understand how maddening it is- being cooped up all week. There are plenty of things for us to do close by…" the look on his face won her over. "But since you got all dressed up. Who am I to argue?"

She hated the idea of revisiting Charleston, especially on the one-week anniversary of his diagnosis. They struggled to find their way back to the mindset that they were in before it happened. Discussion of the untimely winter weather barely cut it. What saved them and their rapport was the excitement of being able to share their mutual love for theatre. Marigold and Tavington regaled themselves with tales of their days on stage for most of the drive. The mention of Tommy Martin's constant heckling of Giselle's performances slowed their conversation down slightly.

"What do you have against Tommy?" Marigold chuckled as pulled into what was surely the last parking space in the snowy downtown district. "I mean, if there was a little girl following you around like a lovesick puppy, I'd probably be annoyed, too. But he wouldn't hurt a fly. Unless he tried to talk it to death… or played it the "Benny Hill" theme on his kazoo for two straight hours. True story. Fortunately for the fly…" she removed the kazoo that she had confiscated from Tommy weeks earlier and waved in around with pride.

Instead of opening his door, Tavington clasped his hands in his lap and turned to Marigold. She could tell that he was on the verge of some sort of confession and refrained from turning off the heater. "What if I told you that I have a little bit of history with the Martin family?"

"Since their kinship with the Caseys goes back for generations, I wouldn't be surprised at all."

"During the war," he breathed, gathering his courage, "I had something of an ongoing rivalry with them. You remember what I told you last week? About how my father not only belittled, but destroyed my ambition of becoming a… farmer?" his ears turned red, clearly, he was still embarrassed of this little reveal. "There was something about Benjamin Martin that I loathed. From the moment I saw him until he finally… well. After careful contemplation, I've realized that it was jealously. That I felt threatened by this image of this proud, humble, simple farmer and his beautiful piece of land. His was a life that I would never possess and dearly wanted. By reigning hell down on him and his children, I thought that I was leveling out the playing field between us. Spending time with the Martins now only adds to my guilt."

"I suppose that's what you meant when you told me that your past was spilling over into this world. Would it be easier for you," Marigold rubbed the fabric of his collar between her fingers, "if we relocated after all? I could rent out the bungalow for a year. It's in the historic district after all, finding an eager tenant would be a breeze! And you and I could lease a house that is more secluded. On the outskirts of town? Still in close range of the hospital, of course, but closer to the country, too. Perhaps that way this Spring, we could have a full-sized garden that you could tend to."

"Only for a year," he looked out the window, bracing himself for the cold walk ahead, "I just can't bear the thought of you uprooting your life for my benefit."

"William, what you are giving me is the most important year of my life. The best year of my life. Who's to say that we shouldn't strive to make it perfect?"

Theatre Zipp was almost exactly how Marigold remembered it from her youth. The building, which was originally a church, was one of the oldest landmarks in Charleston. Although it had been refurbished many times through the years and Tavington didn't have the time nor the interest to explore it all those years ago, he did remember riding past it once or twice. The chapel itself had a large proscenium stage built into its framework in the 1980's. The glistening wood of the steps and the stage itself combined with the lush red fabric of the house curtain made it appear as though the building was originally a theatre by design. At the back of the house and along the edges, they found the spectacle that Marigold had told him about. It was the finest ensemble of stained glass windows that Tavington had ever seen, his time in England included. Many of the windows were modern depictions of the city's history leading up to the early 20th century. They took their time on the way to their assigned seats, parsing as many of the pictures as they could.

"They're going to cover them, of course," Marigold led him by hand from one stunning image to the next, "during the performance. They usually don't draw the curtains back during intermission. So, we'll have to work quickly if we want to see each one!"

During their walk, Tavington became entranced. The sunlight from outside reflected off the white piles of snow and shot through the windows with great intensity. The vast variety of colors danced across her smooth skin and pale hair. She was nothing short of a diamond in the sunlight- a wonder to behold.

"William!?" She grinned with excitement. "Look at this one! It's a representation of Charleston as it was in the 1700's! It even has your harbor- can you see the sails in the distance?"

He placed his hand beneath her chin and gently, very gently, turned her gaze from the stained glass to his face. "I have something that I would like to ask you, Marigold. Difficult questions birth difficult, uneasy answers and I apologize for the trouble, the anguish, the pain that I very well may cause you. But I must have your answer. I cannot leave this world without knowing that I was courageous enough- if only for a moment, to say these words to you." Instead of kneeling, he pulled her in and pressed his forehead to hers. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Right here, in this church, beneath these windows?"

She grew quiet, but only momentarily. Only long enough to close her eyes and absorb, find life in his love, as a flower does a ray of sunlight. "I have never been asked a simpler question," the closer she held him, the clearer it became to her that he was trembling. Before giving her final answer, she gifted him with an innocent kiss. Once, then twice and between each soft contact, Marigold whispered, "Yes, William. Yes, I will marry you."

Their embrace loosened as he revealed the glistening jewel that had been waiting for her all this time. Before sliding it onto her finger, he touched her palm, then the back of her hand with more gentleness than a ripple upon the surface of a pond. "It isn't much, I know," he watched as she twisted her hand, admiring the small diamond's reaction to the light. "if I could, I would give you so much more."

A lonesome tear ventured down Marigold's face and onto her lips. He took this as his cue to take her in, to comfort and warm her lips with his own. Before he could, he heard Marigold whisper, "Oh, William. If you only knew. You've already given me more happiness than I ever expected to find in this lifetime."

After the performance, Marigold led Tavington by his hand to the office of Louisa Zipp. The two women had a brief reunion; Louisa even stole three slices of cake from the post-show cast party that was going on backstage. Then, the three of them went over the arrangements for the ceremony. Marigold was thrilled when Tavington requested information on the string quartet, even more so that he remembered the exact song that his beloved dreamt of for her wedding day since she was very young.

"When will you need all of this by?" Louisa licked the remnants of the cake's blue frosting from the back of a plastic spoon. She looked and acted so much like Giselle, Tavington nearly thought he was speaking to the same person. It put him on edge slightly, knowing that Marigold's best friend wouldn't approve of their engagement. He wasn't looking forward to her reaction in the slightest.

"We're thinking soon. Very soon." Marigold reached for his hand and the flash of the ring on her finger caught her attention. She simply couldn't stop looking at it. As she spoke, she moved their clasped hands beneath a sunbeam and continued to admire it. Tavington squeezed her hand slightly and smiled when he realized what she was doing. "You said the show closes a week from today?"

"Yup. We're striking the set on Monday. The entire area should be cleared out and ready to rent by the 15th."

"What do you think, Darling? The weekend, perhaps?" Tavington seemed just as eager as Marigold.

Louisa tossed her paper plate into the waste basket under her desk and pulled the calendar up on her computer screen. "So, the 18th or the 19th of November. The 18th is National Apple Cider Day and the 19th is National Toilet Day."

Marigold suspended her flirtation with the ring on her finger. "Seriously? That sounds like something one of my students would use as a bizarre excuse to cut class." Tommy Martin, surely. But she held her tongue.

"I shit you not. It says so right here. I know what you're thinking! This country has the most unusual holidays…"

Tavington arched his eyebrow, "Well, indoor plumbing is certainly one of mankind's greatest accomplishments, I'd say merely having it is cause for celebration," Marigold was the only one to laugh, naturally, "I suppose, what was it? Apple... Cider… Day it is?"

"I do feel obligated to tell you," Louisa tugged and released one of her blonde ringlets as if it were a spring. Another Giselle-ism that made Tavington uncomfortable. "We're more than accommodating when it comes to shotgun weddings, but you might want to keep everything on the down low when you meet with Pastor Benson. Even some of our instrumentalists are-"

"This isn't a shotgun wedding," Marigold assured her.

"Most patrons start planning for their wedding a year in advance. Now, since you're a family friend and were one of my best little actresses in my summer program, I'll try my best, but it might come up short in some areas-"

"Darling," he turned to Marigold, "we should enter this marriage with a clear conscience. With honesty." Once his thoughts were successfully read, he proceeded to explain their situation in its entirety to Louisa. "I realize that this is quite an imposition. If we had a year, we would surely give it to you, but we do not. Your theatre means a great deal to Marigold. It is an important piece of her past. She has agreed to marry me despite the bitter truth that she is marrying a dying man. I'm not asking for a bribe or for pity. I merely want to make this day perfect for her. It is the least I can do."

It wasn't that Marigold did not appreciate or understand what he was trying to do. She admired his ability to be so forward about his condition, not only with another person, but with himself. Hearing it dealt with aloud instead of within the confines of her mind was a challenge. She briefly excused herself from the room with as much coolness and tact as she could muster. "The restroom is still in the back of the house, yes?" After Louisa's nod, she rose. "I'll be back momentarily, Darling."

What started off as a slow walk transitioned into a run. She touched the ring as she moved, there was something therapeutic about the smoothness of the band against her fingertips. When she reached the lady's room, she locked the door, leaned her back against the wall and released a collection of heavy sobs into her hands. She hadn't cried much since last week. Every now and then, a tear would slip out, yes, but the pain had been building up inside of her, dormant and awaiting inevitable combustion. Five long minutes passed before she could will away the pain and pull herself back up.

One glance in the mirror proved that she was not ready to return to Louisa's office. She dumped the contents of her tote onto the counter, located her makeup removing wipes and attempted to give herself a clean slate to work from. As Marigold was applying far more than her usual amount of concealer to her under eyes, her reflection underwent a change. There, on the other side of the glass, was the pale, ethereal face of Annabelle Casey.

"No, no absolutely not!" Marigold shouted at the mirror. "I am not ready to let him go now!"

Annabelle smiled pleasantly as she stole a glance at the ring on her counterpart's finger. "I wouldn't be here if you didn't need me, my friend."

"I don't want to discuss it, Annabelle. You're being a total ass by showing up while I'm re-doing my makeup, you know that!? I do not want to start crying again. William is already wondering where I am, no doubt…"

"Breathe, please," her smile was unaltered, "I will only initiate your final journey to 1781 with your permission. You may return to William and continue with your arrangements at any time. I won't stop you. I am, however, here to offer you a journey nevertheless. One that your aching heart desperately needs."

Her lashes were too wet for mascara. So, she threw the tube into the bottom of her tote with force. "Try me."

"Do you remember when you met my father in Waterford? What you witnessed there was an alteration of the truth. I have prepared something similar for you. A place that you may visit in your dreams as early as tonight if you so desire. If you like it there, you will be able to revisit it whenever you wish."

"You have my full attention, Annabelle…"

"I would like to show you the future that you would have with William if there was no past to be rewritten," her eyes remained steadfast on Marigold's ring, "if everything that you two desire were to come to pass after all…"


	18. Something Unforetold

**Author's Note: The brief song lyric is from a lovely little piece called "Sweet Sir Galahad" by Joan Baez. Just so there isn't any confusion, it was the "lullaby" from Marigold's childhood that she sang on the car ride home a couple of chapters back. I don't own it and could never even begin to dream up lyrics like the ones Baez writes- but I do recommend giving it a listen. It's just so… Tavington. Especially from Marigold's perspective.**

Neither of them could bring themselves to regret the trip to Charleston. But as Tavington sat, trembling at the edge of the bed in Marigold's guest bedroom; he could hardly deny that traveling again before the 18th was out of the question. His fingertips were always the first to grow numb. He struggled with his buttons as a result. Thankfully, Marigold intervened. She asked him to rest his head in her lap for another few minutes while his t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms were being warmed in the dryer.

"You know, I never learned how the story ends," he shut his eyes as she cradled his head, "in the song that you sing for me every night. Since our first trip home from Charleston."

"That's because you always conk out before I have the opportunity to finish it." She teased, stroking his long strands of hair.

"The girl is very sad because she feels like a failure. So, she confides in him," Tavington recalled, "she puts down the mask that she wears when she is around her neighbors and friends. That is all that I can remember…"

Marigold continued to weave her fingers through his dark mane and sang softly, as a mother would to a child,

" _He just put his arm around her and that's the way I found her eight months later to the day. Lines of a smile erased the tear tracks upon her face. A smile that could linger even stayed! Sweet Sir Galahad went down with his gay bride of flowers, the prince of the hours of her lifetime. And here's to the dawn of their days, of their days_ …"

"The dawn of their days... Well, I did ask for you to sing me something hopeful, didn't I?"

"You most certainly did. What else are we to be if we are not hopeful?" Many things, of course. "Realistic" was among them. But that word meant nothing here- at least not now. "Just this morning," Marigold could hear the dryer going off down the hall and nudged him slightly, "the only thing on my mind was job hunting. I had no idea I would go to bed engaged to the love of my life. If you don't think that is cause for hope, you couldn't be more wrong."

She stepped out and returned not a minute later with his warm, clean loungewear and a glass of ice water. After helping him reach the edge of the bed, she rubbed her hand against his back while he drank and then assisted him in dressing. As she was unbuttoning his dress shirt, the surgery scar on his chest came into view. With his permission, she stroked, then kissed the raw flesh of his wound before giving it a new dressing. The angry red incision across his heart bore much resemblance to her own. She would have opened a conversation about their similarities, but Marigold found herself terribly conflicted as she moved her hands across his bare skin. He was in a heightened state of vulnerability. Nobody, no surgeon, no lover had ever seen him so defeated. And yet, a lustful darkness stirred in Marigold's heart as she dressed him. Despite his frailty, she longed to lay him down and make violent love to his body; to suspend his mortality and take him to a heaven of her own making. If they could bring one another back to life merely through touch, she thought, imagine what wonders might unfold if they surrendered to desire. If only for just a while…

Allowing his clothes to warm in the dryer didn't help as much as Marigold had hoped. By the time she positioned him against his pillow and folded the sheets over him, Tavington was shaking with more aggression than before. Frightened of what this might mean, Marigold suggested giving his doctor a call, but he convinced her that he was only chilled and nothing more.

Sure enough, after five minutes or so, the shaking ceased and he relaxed. Marigold turned off the lights and rested beside him as best she could. She heard him whisper the same sweet goodnight that had become his custom over the recent weeks, "I will meet you in my dreams." The dream that Annabelle had promised her seemed just as indulgent as fantasizing about the sexual encounter she and Tavington had yet to experience and very well may be denied when all is said and done.

She had to accept what marriage to Tavington would really look like. Surely, there would be many more nights like this one. She would take the place of his strength as it gradually abandoned him and watch helplessly, dreading the day when she wouldn't be able to save him.

Although Marigold decided against sleep, the now commonplace game of savoring every one of his deep breaths lulled her away at around 3 AM. This gave her three full hours of bliss. At first, she found herself staring out of a large bay window. The light from the large, round moon spilled down onto an endless field of what was surely a summer harvest. Everything below that the light had trapped glowed blue- the deck, the field, the sturdy barn at the edge of this beautiful picture…

Tavington had built it all with his bare hands and it was theirs; their own tiny kingdom. The summer night was just cool enough to call for a fire and the crackle and warmth that it produced tempted Marigold to turn inward from the window. He was seated in front of the hearth, his work boots and muddied gloves rested beside his large armchair.

"William?" As she moved into the living room, she saw that the space surrounding him was simple but neatly kept. Potted and hanging plants were meticulously placed against the stark white walls. Lines of colorful book spines could be found in between. She would have continued to take in the interior that they had clearly collaborated on together- a visual marriage of their personalities and interests; but something of a greater importance caught her eye.

"I'll move my boots momentarily, Darling. She fell asleep the moment I sat down." Tavington's eyes, blue and lovely, filled with all the admiration and pride in the world as he glanced at his wife from over the head of their sleeping daughter.

"I hardly even noticed," Marigold managed to respond. The look that he had given her was so primal, so rare- the kind of look that can only be shared between two parents as they dote upon their mutual legacy. The tiny baby, swaddled in a soft yellow blanket, cooed like a dove as she nestled into her father's strong arms.

Marigold watched her movement and could almost feel the comfort and love that they shared merely by looking at them. As she reached out and touched her daughter's soft wisps of golden-brown hair, the babe awoke and turned to see who was there. A rogue tear traveled down Marigold's face, but she still managed a smile. Her tiny, upturned nose and round face was indicative of any Casey baby, but it was her eyes that captured Marigold's heart. They were sharp, curious, warm and cold at the same time- and undeniably blue- exactly like her father's in every way.

Marigold's eyes were still locked on their daughter when her alarm went off. In an instant, she went from looking into the eyes of their child to looking into Tavington's, who had been watching her in silence all this time.

"Is everything alright?" She shut off her alarm and turned to greet those eyes once more.

"You were smiling in your sleep. Forgive me. It's always so beautiful to witness..."

"I dreamt of you," Marigold held him tightly, "and of something else, too. Something wonderful."

"She has your nose," Tavington's comment was met with disbelief, "yes, yes. I dreamt of her, too."

"And her father's eyes," her expression shifted like a cloud covering the sun, "do you think it will ever happen? Outside of our dreams?"

They grew pensive, silent. After a few minutes, Marigold headed to her upstairs bathroom for a shower and suggested that Tavington get more sleep. Once finished, she slipped her beloved ring back on, wrapped up in a warm towel and headed into her closet to select a nice dress to wear while inquiring for her second and perhaps, third job.

She emerged with two options to try on in front of her mirror and saw that Tavington hadn't only climbed the stairs on his own, but was standing in her doorway, waiting for her. When they met one another halfway through her room, he moved his fingertips across the top of the scar on her chest.

"It's just like mine, isn't it?" He asked, lowering his lips to the laceration.

Without answering, Marigold loosened the towel just enough to make her left breast visible. He paid attention, only to her wound for a few heartbeats longer before cupping her breast in his hand. As she shut her eyes, he could see that his touch, intimate and new to this part of her anatomy, had given her goosebumps from head to toe.

"If we can cure one another by barely touching, imagine what we could do if we-" he stopped himself, but Marigold's willing removal of the towel that covered her naked form provided him the access that he desired. That she desired, too. Tavington wrapped his arms around her and carried her, without so much as a single tremble, to lay across the soft sunlit comforter on her bed.

She relieved him of his shirt first and took her time, tracing her finger across the scar that undoubtedly mirrored her own. "Are you afraid of what might happen?" This would be her final moment of clarity and reason before succumbing entirely to the fire that was rising all around them.

"Yes", he removed the final barriers that separated their skin, rendering himself as naked and vulnerable as she. "And no. Are you?"

His eyes continued their touchless exploration of her soft, white body that was completely unclothed save for the long strands of airdrying hair that clung to her flesh but provided little coverage… and of course the ring on her finger- his ring. He could see that she was just as entranced by him. Her green eyes that had always seemed so innocent to him, grew hungry as they ventured from his broad shoulders to his handsome core and stopping once they reached his manhood. Merely beholding one another was stimulating enough. So, he moved closer and, with softness, touched the inside of her thigh. Electricity. He hardened, she throbbed. Her gravitation to his hand as her arousal grew validated every stroke.

"No," she whispered as his fingers slipped into the damp, warm territory that desire had prepared for him and only him, "I am not afraid." He teased her with his touch for a moment longer before opening her thighs like a doorway and entering inside. Ecstasy came long before their climax; it arrived the moment the marriage between their bodies took place. They were bound together by a million golden threads of lightning that shocked and thrilled them more and more with every passing moment. No dream nor fantasy that either of them ever had would surpass this keen jubilation of their souls that grew with every gentle rock, every tidal wave that he sent crashing upon her shore.

Tavington watched each emotion as it entered and left her face. He did not grow tired once, no, it was exactly how they had suspected- exactly what they had hoped for. Their inhibitions and fears for one another dissolved with every moan, with every scream of the other's name, or pleading declaration of love each time a mutual release drew near. They would stop periodically, but always found their way back to one another's arms. Each time, the electrifying power between them didn't stray for a moment.

She was his nourishment, a flower waiting for pollination. Before they retired, mid-day, he thanked the sweet petals and folds of her femininity with a tender caress from his lips and tongue. Even after hours of lovemaking, Tavington could still hear and feel her orgasm washing over her from above within minutes. His hand took the place of his mouth at the last second, if only to experience the rise of her body, the reddening of her flesh and the look of pure love upon her elegant features, first hand without the interference of his own pleasure.

They slept a while before Marigold left the room and started her second shower of the day. Her intention was to wash up, but this worked for only a while. She'd barely worked up a lather on her washcloth when he stepped in.

"My one concern is," she said breathlessly, wrapping her leg around him as he pushed her against the glass, "we won't be able to get our hands off one another now." She was the last to speak and for a while, all that she could hear was the water clapping against his back and his breath transitioning into gentle, pleasure-filled sighs. His heartrate grew with every thrust and continued to sound with just as much ferocity after he climaxed.

"I believe," he sucked several droplets of water off her neck and collarbone, "we've already moved beyond those boundaries. I could make love to you until you finally wick away all my strength," this gesture moved lower, quickly becoming a tender union between her breasts and his lips, "but I doubt that would be possible. Seeing as you give me strength…"

Marigold made it known that she was ready for him again, but coaxed him to move faster before the warm water ran out. They dropped to the floor, allowing the stream to beat down on them as they shared their most violent encounter yet. They fought for dominance and Marigold won out in the end. She seemed to drive him into the tile floor with each pump of her hips, her face turned skyward as she forced her hands across her own hardening nipples. With a stream of light creating a rainbow through the water and steam that hung in the air between them, she was a vision, both masturbatory and angelic all at once. She lilted a final sigh of love into the humid air before making her swan dive into his open arms.

As she recovered, Tavington could only hold her like the precious jewel she was. It was the perfect ending to their first, albeit elongated, exploration of one another. Not only was it worth waiting centuries for, but it seemed to be the answer that they had both been waiting for. Perhaps something so simple, so essential would save him after all.

At around 4 pm, after receiving the confirmation that Giselle was taking Marigold's post at South, yet again, they dressed and headed out for an early dinner. Tavington's newfound exuberance was more than she could have ever asked for, but she kept a close watch on him for any indication that this reaction was short lived. The roads had defrosted in the sunlight, but they drove downtown and selected a dining option that allowed them to remain in the car, just as a safety precaution.

"I can give you about ten good reasons why we should not be eating fried food right now," Marigold lectured shortly after placing their order at a local drive-in burger joint called "Frenchie's".

Tavington leaned against the headrest and granted her a long, adoring stare, "I can give you one good reason why we should…" Clearly, she understood what this meant, but he proceeded anyway, "they say that based on how talented your partner is in bed, the more famished intercourse makes you! Since this is one of those rare occasions that you've ordered a larger meal than I-"

"Ordering a strawberry shake instead of a water hardly constitutes for a larger meal," she teased, mirroring the passion in his eyes, "but since you're fishing for compliments, I must admit… you are quite a remarkable lay."

Timing, of course, would see to it that their drinks arrived just in time for a poor, young teenage girl on roller skates would hear this comment. The noise of her wheels hardly had the time to scuttle into the distance before they burst out laughing. It carried on longer than it should have, but it felt good to laugh again- especially at Tavington's unusual talent for humiliating himself in front of restaurant workers.

"That wasn't one of your students, I hope!?" Tavington grinned, stealing a sip of Marigold's shake before she was even able to try it. "So… just to recap, horseless carriages, indoor plumbing, machines that wash and dry articles of clothing, machines that chill food, whatever that glorious concoction was that you ordered-"

"All the hot and steamy shower sex a person could ask for!" Marigold interjected. Naturally, just as their order arrived.

"Uh, hi again," the gangly ponytailed girl groaned uncomfortably, "two turkey burgers and a basket of onion rings. Are you sure you don't want any Frenchie Fries?"

"And a horseless carriage catering service called Frenchie's that serves a product called Frenchie Fries!" He threw his arms up in the air, banging them on the roof of the car in the process. Not phased in the least, he leaned across Marigold's lap and shouted at their server, "Are you aware, young lady, that you are living in the most marvelous era the world has ever known!? Relish it!"

"I'd like to apologize for my fiancé, he-"

"Relish it, I say!" Tavington continued, biting into an onion ring and "mmmm"ing in approval.

"I don't understand," the young girl stuck her pencil in her ponytail, "is he asking me for relish?"

Marigold shook her head and apologized yet again before she rolled away. "How are the onion rings, Babe?"

"Absolutely exquisite!"

"Good," Marigold rolled up her window, switched on her favorite oldies station and crawled into the backseat, beckoning for Tavington to follow suit. They took turns laying across the bench with their head in the other's lap. "Now, I don't want you to get too used to greasy food. I took Henry here once and he got hooked! Then he got Moxie hooked as well and she had to go to a doggie nutritionist."

"A doggie nutritionist? Good Gracious, Woman!"

"Hey," Marigold nearly shouted, enjoying herself far too much, "I'm sure you had certain dietary standards for your horse way back when!"

"Uhm… grass?" He stole yet another sip of the shake. Marigold considered slapping his hand, but let him have it.

"My point is… we need to worry about keeping that heart of yours healthy, after all." She leaned over and kissed his forehead once he settled down again.

"You're doing a very good job, by the way," he moved the ends of her long, blonde hair across his nose and lips.

"Of what?"

"Taking care of me. You're going to be a wonderful wife and a wonderful mother, too."

Marigold sat back and looked away. "William?" After a few seconds, he sat upright and faced her. "Do you think that maybe, just maybe… if you were to let go of the past and focus on the present, we could change our fate? Do you think that's what we discovered today? I could almost feel your heart growing stronger each time I held you in my arms." He did not respond. He didn't have to. They both knew that he felt his heart growing stronger, too.

That night, sleep came easy and the same connection occurred between their dreams. Images of their daughter were fleeting but lovely. She was older this time around, between 10 and 12 years of age. They stood together at the edge of a large arena that, like everything else on their farm, Tavington himself had constructed, and watched closely as she practiced a complex dressage routine on a palomino mare. Marigold wasn't versed in this artform, so he explained it to her as best he could.

"She has miraculous form," he applauded as the brown-haired girl trotted past them with perfect posture, "and see how she's controlling the horse and not the other way around? I wouldn't expect anything less from a Tavington."

As she led her mount out of a shoulder-in volte, she caught sight of her parents and broke focus just long enough to stick her tongue out at both of them. "Or a Casey," Marigold concluded with a thousand-watt smile.

Tavington continued to watch his daughter's movements with careful calculation. "Focus, Little Miss, focus! What does a volte become if you're not focused?"

"A big ol' sloppy oval," she grinned and blushed in embarrassment, revealing the smallest notch between her front teeth. This on top of the combination of her refined appearance and undeniably thick South Carolina accent made her even more endearing.

Each time she passed by, they noticed something new; little quirks that made her unique like the freckles on her nose, a thin scar on her chin just above her helmet's strap, the metallic blue polish on her nails and the faint fragrance of the same cotton candy perfume that Marigold favored during her preteen years. Simultaneously, they wondered what her name was and fabricated memories with her that led them to this point.

The interactions and similarities that she and Tavington shared made it clear to Marigold that she was a "daddy's girl". So, what would it be like if fate decided that she would have to raise her on her own? Would they argue? Would they even be able to find common ground? How would she be able to explain where she came from and who her father was? She glanced over her shoulder, preparing this question in her mind. But Tavington was nowhere to be found. He had vanished from her dream entirely, leaving Marigold alone with their daughter…

 **Another Author's Note: As I mentioned earlier, sex scenes are not my forte. I've heard it said that if it's awkward for the writer, it's awkward for the reader- so I apologize for any awkwardness. I prefer to handle sex in my writing as a spiritual connection. That is why most of my details were swapped out for metaphors. Regardless, the scene (or series of scenes) in this chapter was essential to the plot and for moving the story forward. On the subject, I'm going to try to finish this story before returning to class on the 21** **st** **. So, daily (or thereabouts) updates are in the forecast. At least, that's the goal that I'm setting for myself. We all know how those go! Lol. As always, thanks for bearing with! -LS**


	19. I'm Your Spaniel

_But I came back for more,_

 _And you laughed in my face and you rubbed it in._

 _'Cause I'm a Labrador,_

 _And I run when the gun drops the dove again._

-Aimee Mann

As Marigold's hand ventured across the bed, it found only an empty space. Her first instinct was to panic but each of her senses calmed her as they awoke, one by one. She could hear over the prickle of snowflakes against her window something that sounded very much like food frying in the kitchen and smelled the soothing aroma of freshly ground and brewed coffee. Before heading downstairs, Tavington had even ignited fresh a stick of Nag Champa incense and left it to smoke and smolder on her dresser. Love warmed her heart and she dozed comfortably until his voice summoned her to join him in the space- their space.

"Good morning, my beautiful one," Tavington placed noisy a tray on Marigold's nightstand and nudged Moxie's curious snout away from its contents, "I am marrying you in four days..." Another sense, touch, sprung to life as he moved the back of his hand against the curvature of her hip and buried his lips into the bare flesh of her waist.

He drew her into his warmth and all that she could feel was his skin. "You made me breakfast completely naked?" Marigold laughed, smoothing her hands across him in every direction. Affirmative, butt naked. His feet weren't even properly sock'd!

"I most certainly did," Tavington started to stir his coffee, casually. He tried his best to remain suave, but finally broke and laughed along with her. "Now, you have French toast topped with your famous honey mint berry salad and powdered sugar. Oh! And your ideal cup of coffee. Stumptown House Blend, all the way from beautiful Portland, Oregon." Someone wanted a bribe and not of the monetary sort. But Marigold was swept off her feet, nonetheless. "Two pumps of hazelnut with a thimble's worth of milk. I used a real thimble just for safety. As always, it is served in your favorite bumblebee mug."

She stole a quick glance at the undeniably beautiful breakfast that he had prepared for her and gave him a gracious kiss on the forehead. It wasn't long before she started laughing again. "I'm sorry, I was just imagining you frying up French toast in the nude…"

"I'll wake you up early next time so you can watch," he took a small bite of a strawberry slice that Marigold offered him from her own plate, "only if you're interested, of course…" The smallest bit of juice from the strawberry glistened in the corner of his mouth. She started to wipe it away, but Tavington seized her wrist and started to kiss the tips of her fingers one by one. "Have I ever told you that you have the most beautiful hands?" The warmth of his breath moved from fingertip to wrist as he spoke, gradually enveloping her entire hand as a glove would. "Because you do. So slender, so soft. I've always adored that backward bend at their tips. They are to me ten small, white calla lilies. Lovely and sweet; my goddess' passageway to the tactile world. What, I wonder, did I ever do to become worthy of each caress that they have given me?"

"You're beginning to sound very much like a poet, William Tavington." As she placed the tray on the bed, Moxie jumped up, spoiling the mood only slightly. Still, Tavington continued to plant occasional kisses all along her ivory shoulders and unclothed back as they had their breakfast. "I take it you slept well, William?" Once finished, she allowed herself to be held once more, cup in hand. "I missed you for the second part of our dream… what were you doing?"

"Uhm. To use your words, frying up French toast in the nude." He threw his final bite of food to Moxie, silencing her high-pitched whining for a second or two. "Here's hoping I didn't traumatize your dog. What were you doing? Did you learn anything new about our little girl?"

"She asked where you went. And briefly whistled "My Little Buttercup" to her horse as she was leading her to the stable after their ride. You know, like from "The Three Amigos", so it's nice to know that she has excellent taste in films. And is a complete nut. Oh, and she calls you 'Fa' and me 'Ma'. Of course, she might have just been acting cute. I have a feeling she's very ironic..."

"… and so, so smart!" Tavington's eyes softened. "What I'd give to meet her one day! And speak to her." Pain moved into his eyes next, followed by the mildest storm of tears. He tried to stifle them, but Marigold witnessed every one. She hated to see him cry, but was falling more and more in love with the sensitivity that he possessed and tried in vain to conceal most days. "You speculated that these dreams were a gift to ease our suffering. So, why is it that I still feel as though I am paying for my crimes each time I see her?"

"Hush," she set her coffee aside, drying his tears and holding him close was the only that mattered right now, "you only feel this way because you are a good man."

"How can you say that?"

"Because," she caught another tear and then another, "you are a living paradox. And a beautiful one at that. Your heart is weakened by guilt and strengthened by love."

"I love you," Tavington whispered through his tears. The response in his heart, created only by the mere utterance of those words demolished the pain within and enabled it to keep beating. Marigold, whose heart was separated from his only by flesh and bone, felt everything that he was feeling. They were conjoined, it seemed, two hearts beating for one soul.

"I will keep you here with me. No matter what it takes. And you won't only meet our daughter, you will raise her to be just as fearless and gentle and kind as you are, do you understand me?" With every word of this declaration, his embrace tightened. "My one request is that you start wearing pants in the kitchen once there's a baby in our house. The doggie doesn't mind it, but that kind of thing would result in like… years of therapy."

His laughter moved across her shoulders like a gentle breeze. Once he seemed settled, Marigold positioned his head against the pillow and gave him her body for a while. Backlit by the pale light of morning, she rocked her hips softly, rhythmically. The session was to provide comfort and it only grew lustful towards the end. Their eye contract broke when her back arched. Tavington's hands, positioned just above her hips, became covered with a smooth tidal wave of her golden hair as her sigh echoed against the ceiling.

"You look like an angel," she heard him say from below. This comment was met with a tiny laugh. "Every morning?"

"Every morning," Marigold promised, touching her lips to his forehead. "And evening, too."

"Then I believe I am a saved man…"

Showering together proved to be a mess, yet again. As Marigold raced across the house to retrieve their towels and clothes from the dryer, she realized that her hair was weighed down by a large gob of conditioner that Tavington had placed in it while trying to be "helpful". So, she had to hop back in and rinse it out.

"What do you have planned for the day?" Tavington waited by the shower door with an open, dryer-fresh towel.

"Well," she grinned as he wrapped the fluffy white fabric all around her, "I am going to drop off some resumes. Giselle and I are meeting for lunch. Then work at 4, of course. If you'd like to go downtown with me, we could stop by the secondhand shop. I'm going to need a dress for Saturday, after all. We'll have to wait a couple of days on the rings, seeing as I had to take out a loan for all of this. But I mean… we're getting married in a theatre! Pantomiming a ring ceremony is almost to be expected!"

"Remember what I told you," he started to dry her hair, trying his best not to become aroused again as her partially dried, naked body bumped into his, "about returning to work?"

"Only if the doctor okays it." She saw what was happening and intervened. "Eyes up, please. On my face. There you go. That would defeat the entire purpose of showering, after all." Her words were harsh, but her voice remained playful.

"You're a very cleanly person, aren't you? I suppose that's the price one must pay for always smelling divine! If only I had known about aromatherapy as a soldier- I would have been much more relaxed!" He looked on as she spritzed a bottle of dry lavender oil across her hair and shoulders, catching him in the mist. "Once I'm back at work, I can take care of those… water bills of yours and… what did you call it? Water conservation won't be an issue, anymore."

"Hey, water conservation is very important in this establishment. But that is a very kind offer…"

Reluctantly, he handed Marigold her dress and was thrilled when she placed it on the counter and knelt on floor, removing the towel from around his waist. She had only done this with one other man before and it hadn't gone too well. Her nerves surfaced slightly but Tavington talked her through the process and told her what he liked. He massaged her damp scalp, and responded with pleasure to the deep tugs of her hot mouth and flicks of clever tongue. When she emerged after experimenting for a while, he praised it all.

"I figured I love it so much when you do it for me… so…" she blushed, wiping her lips with the blade of her finger.

"Do you even know how… what was the word you used when you were describing how my… posterior… looks in jeans… how… sexy? Sexy! You look when you do that?"

"When I do what?" The blush was moving quickly across her pale skin. Tavington moved his hand to her lips and imitated the wiping motion. "Sounds like a fetish to me," Marigold gave him a firm, lengthy kiss on the mouth before stepping into her dress. "I'll have to remember that." Any trace of embarrassment escaped from her face as he swept her hair to the side and fastened the buttons on the back of her dress, kissing each inch of skin before it disappeared behind the floral fabric.

"Honestly, my dear," he took his time, savoring this process, "euphoria is a language in which you are entirely fluent."

Despite Marigold's plans to ready herself within the hour, their boundless curiosity for one another combined with the post-shower steam that hung heavily in the air, set both of them tragically aback. She gave the water heater a good twenty minutes to do its job and they returned to square one. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, you get my point.

No resumes were dropped off before meeting with Giselle. They suspected that lunch would be awkward and between Tavington's first face-to-face conversation with Tess about his condition and Giselle's immediate discovery of the ring on Marigold's finger, the lovely note in which they had started the day out on quickly turned sour.

"You're doing it again," Giselle rocked back and forth in her chair, covering her face with her hands, "people think that I'm the impulsive bestie, but no I had food poisoning once. And it lasted longer than you two have been dating."

"So, I guess this means you won't be my maiden of honor, huh? That makes me pretty sad, you know?" Marigold ruffled Giselle's ringlets before giving her head a tiny push. "Sorry. Your hair was about to get into William's chicken and stars."

"And another thing!" Giselle walked her elbows to the edge of the table, glaring at Tavington. "Who in their right mind wants to marry a man-child who orders chicken and stars for lunch?"

"He never got the chance to have them when he was younger and he hasn't been feeling very well… that's completely off-topic!"

Giselle's eyes moved from Marigold to Tavington. They were inseparable from day one, yes, but something about their obvious devotion to one another had changed. Even since that terrible day at the hospital in Charleston. His illness had sparked a maternal response in Marigold. She had assumed the role of his provider and… something else. Giselle struggled to make sense of it. After ten quiet seconds of analysis, she made a face that was supposed to appear as cunning but came across as downright whacky. "You're glowing, Mare."

"I'm just excited about the wedding is all." Marigold shifted her salad around a bit before splitting a cornbread crouton with her fork in frustration. She and Tavington hadn't even considered contraceptives during any of their various intimate encounters. Despite the dreams of having his child, pregnancy was still a foreign idea in her mind. Giselle was merely instigating and nothing more. She had to be!

She brushed off Marigold's comment and turned sharply to Tavington who was trying and failing to enjoy his lunch. "What's your life expectancy again?"

"Giselle!"

"No, Billy gets to talk now. What is your life expectancy?"

Tavington put down his spoon, fuming with impatience and discomfort. "18 months."

"That's what I thought. Prone to heart failure. I'm sure your doctors have warned you repeatedly about sex. That's some grim shit. Don't you think, Mare?"

"You don't want to hear what I'm thinking. Trust me." Marigold groaned, giving up on her salad.

"No, I'd love to hear what you're thinking! We'd all love to hear what you're thinking! Because then maybe I could finally confirm your reservation at the looney bin-"

"-you're being a colossal bitch."

Giselle crossed her arms. They'd thrown this word around in jest, even in anger. It should have hurt, but it didn't. In her eyes, Marigold was being more than irrational, she was baiting a broken heart. "People are always so obsessed with assigning antagonists. Go ahead, do that to me for all I care. Stick a label on my ass, tattoo my forehead… but if I play along with this fantasy… eighteen months from now, Billy, I am going to have to watch as a woman who I love more than I have ever loved myself become an empty shell of a human being. If you have ever felt guilt beyond measure-"

"-when will you stop martyring yourself? Todd dumping me back in Portland wasn't your fault, the carbon monoxide and faulty detector in my parent's museum wasn't your fault, Henry vanishing into thin air-"

"Was my fault." Giselle's face was pure stone up until this point. Now, it was quickly fragmenting. "And I have never, ever been able to forgive myself. I thought that if I could spare you one moment of pain… can't you see that this is my chance to do that?"

"What happened, Giselle?" Marigold could feel Tavington's hand on top of hers, but she didn't accept it. She didn't move, even her breaths appeared to be suspended.

"He drove his car into the river." Words usually shot out of Giselle's mouth like bullets from a machine gun but not now. Her confession was slow, melodic and every syllable was drenched in pain. "Your brothers covered the tracks after he washed ashore. His origins were a mystery, if you remember right. Jack forged his paperwork for you, made him a human. Jack also saw to it that he disappeared without a trace. I can show you where he is buried if you would like. It's unmarked. But only several headstones down from the Casey's plot. Heaven knows, I visit him all the time..."

Marigold remained paralyzed in her seat. Several heavy tears spilled from her unblinking eyes. "But why?"

"He was with me the night he disappeared. Please understand he loved you, not me. We just had this connection from the moment we met. He told me that I reminded him of someone he knew in a previous life. It was going to be meaningless sex, but he felt so guilty that… I tried to stop him. I never wanted to hurt you, ever."

"Too late," Marigold's voice was barely audible as she lowered her eyes to cry.

Tavington's face grew red and his heartrate swelled. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, fury plagued his mind. He barely moved his hand from Marigold's, fixing to strike Giselle or perhaps do something worse. Consideration of her behavior during this meeting revealed her hypocrisy. She deserved to be set straight and to somehow begin to pay for the pain that she had caused the woman who she supposedly "loved more than herself". Seconds before raising his hand and forming it into a fist, Marigold used her last ounce of strength to hold him down like an anchor.

"I forgive you," once again, a current of electricity traveled between Marigold and Tavington. "I forgive you," she confirmed a second time, looking deep into Giselle's eyes, "because I love you." A gentle wave of peace moved over Tavington as she broke away from his touch. She stood and moved around the table, pulling Giselle to her feet and into her arms. "It's okay," Marigold's tone was soothing and unbroken, despite the tears that moved across her face. As Giselle's pain and disbelief turned to silent, prideful sobs Marigold kissed her forehead lightly.

Tavington was mesmerized. There was a spark of divinity about Marigold, something that only existed in scripture. She was his angel; but what he did not know was that their love was the source of her grace. This was the last that they spoke of Henry Anderson. At least for a while. After Giselle headed back out into the snow, Tavington remained with Marigold in the café. He kept a tight grasp on her hand as she downed a large mug of herbal tea. Words were unnecessary. His presence and touch were enough.

They remained close to one another well into the afternoon. Tavington convinced her that merely walking around downtown would help get her mind off Giselle's painful confession. He was right. Resumes were dropped off left and right and they even found a potential candidate for her wedding dress. The price was right, anyway.

"I think I might just go ahead and order one on Amazon," Marigold sighed as she parked along the snowy sidewalk in front of South. "We could even order some inexpensive wedding bands as placeholders, too."

"Do you have Prime?"

"I'm not sure if I should be impressed or upset with the fact that you know what that is…" she emitted a subtle laugh, taking a mental picture of the priceless anomaly that sat beside her in her passenger seat.

His shoulder-length hair fell into his eyes as he sifted through options on the Amazon app of his no-contract phone. "What was the style of dress that you said you wanted?"

"The groom doesn't traditionally pick the dress, Sweetheart. I actually think going dress shopping with me earlier was supposed to be bad luck or something…"

"Bad luck?" He gave her one of his famous sideways grins. "We laugh in the face of bad luck, you and I! Now, what was the style of dress that you were looking for? It will keep me occupied while you teach…"

"A white 1950's style swing dress. Preferably under a hundred bucks."

"1950's?" The same grin appeared again.

"Think… "Grease" or "American Graffiti". But plain white. Except, now that I think of it, a colorful sash around the waist might be kind of cute…"

He glanced at his phone, then at Marigold. "Perhaps you're best situated for this decision after all. But can I make one request?"

"Of course, it's your wedding, too!"

"Will you wear flowers in your hair for me?"

Marigold beamed, his request was so darling in its simplicity. "I would be happy to."

South was a mess. And that's putting it lightly. Not only had Giselle littered the one room schoolhouse with colored paper, paint, glitter and a variety of cardboard rolls from paper towels and toilet paper; her students appeared to have picked up where they left off on… whatever the hell she had them making.

"I take it you enjoyed your time with Miss Zipp? Did she help you with your… geometry?" Marigold inquired. It was no use, everyone was either threading tissue paper through their cardboard rolls or peeling dried glue from their hands and sticking it on their faces. "Yup. I see she managed to reduce you to preschoolers in the process…"

Tommy was uncharacteristically motionless. Marigold considered asking him about the "project" that his classmates were partaking in, but he appeared to be even more out of the loop than usual. His knuckles grew white as he drove the lead-end of a wooden pencil into his desk while his eyes ping-pong'd angrily from Tavington to the engagement ring on his teacher's finger. This was going to be a difficult evening.

"Help me," Marigold mouthed to her fiancé, who was aloofly playing Angry Birds in the corner.

Energized by this request, Tavington sprung to his feet and crossed to the front of the classroom. "Attention!" His booming voice caused the very foundation of the schoolhouse to quake. "When I say 'attention', you disorderly lot, that means eyes up, backs straightened- sitting is a privilege, one that I will gladly revoke if you don't… Mr. Martin? That disrespectful glare of yours has earned you a two-mile march around the-"

"-Everyone," Marigold interrupted as she snagged a piece of chalk. She was taking quite a chance, but was confident that Tavington would follow her lead. "This is Mr. Tavington," she wrote his name out in an ornate cursive font, "he and I are going to help you brush up on your history…"

"Tavington?" Tommy miraculously recovered by the sound of this name. "I thought Auntie Tess was just shitting me when she said-" he pointed his broken pencil like a dagger, "you're related to him, aren't you? The Butcher?"

Several heads shot up. Waterford was so rich in history and proud of its culture that even the most notorious slackers at the high school knew a thing or two about this tyrant. Marigold wanted to bury her head in the sand. How could she have been so idiotic? She'd learned only recently that keeping Tavington separate from his past would at the very least aid her in keeping him by her side. Now, she'd subjected him to ridicule because of it…

 **Author's Note: Reviewers, I can't thank you enough for your input and words of encouragement regarding the last chapter! I'm still quite bashful about sharing… well, any of my writing, really. So, hearing that you not only understood, but enjoyed my take on those sorts of scenes that I rarely write in the first place was a major confidence boost! To answer your wonderful question, Guest, yes. Annabelle gifted the dreams to Marigold as a sort of consolation prize. She didn't know for sure that the dreams would be shared with Tavington, however. Annabelle also didn't know the effect that intimacy would have on Tavington's heart. That will be dealt with in coming chapters. X**


	20. The Soft Goodbye

There are many ways to describe an overnight flight across the Atlantic. A glass of cold champagne and a seat that folds out into the bed is said to make even the most timid first-class flyer comfortable after a while. For those in economy, it is nothing short of trying to sleep in a frigid matchbox. They switched seats halfway through the flight. The skies were clear and since the routes that American flights take to England go up and over instead of straight across, Marigold gave Tavington her window seat just as the airliner glided above coastal Greenland.

Seeing the reflection of starlight bouncing off the dark waters and icebergs below calmed him. He had been nothing short of a trembling mess for the entire trip. Although deep down, he found the sensation of hurdling into the sky and becoming airborne to be thrilling. As the sun crept into the cabin, however, he started to tremble again and had to look away. The plane tilted slightly and Marigold was able to glimpse land from out the window.

"William," she nudged his shoulder, "look out your window." He shook his head, keeping his eyes glued on the screen at the back of the seat in front of him. Angry Birds, go figure. "You don't want to see England?"

"Describe it to me."

Marigold leaned across his chest and took a better look, "It looks like a patchwork quilt," she grinned, taking in the mismatched splotches of dark and pale green fields. "It's beautiful." As she turned to look at him, she noticed that he had vanished, fallen out of their dream yet again.

This time, she awoke to find that he was turned away from her in bed, trembling with just as much force as he had been moments ago. "William?" She pulled him over to lay on his back. His bare chest was drenched and quickly chilling in the cold. The heater must have shut off sometime in the night. So, Marigold jogged down the hall, adjusted the thermostat and returned to his side. Nothing had changed. She spoke his name yet again to no avail. When she placed her hand on his heart, she found that it was pounding out a chaotic, nonsensical rhythm- nearly as badly as it had when he flatlined. Without a moment to spare, she dialed 911.

"Heart attack," the gray-haired paramedic droned to Marigold as she clung tightly to Tavington's hand on the ambulance, "a bad one, too."

"I don't understand. He was fine this morning. He was fine all day. He had a difficult evening, yes, but he was back to his usual self before we went to bed."

"I looked at his chart. Even the smallest disturbance can set him off. Has he been under any pressure lately, other than the usual?"

"We're planning for our wedding," Marigold's voice cracked. The medic didn't say anything, but she knew what he was thinking. Entering into a marriage right now would not only be imprudent, but nearly impossible. "We had sex," she said, awkwardly. If this admittance could help Tavington in the long run, she would gladly endure the impending lecture.

"Dammit," he grumbled, reaching for his stethoscope, "how long before his episode?"

Marigold shrugged, "Three, maybe four hours. We've been intimate several times over the last couple of days, it's actually seemed to help him!"

He looked up from his work, removing the glasses from his nose. "He received orders, you received orders, it's even written ten times in his damned release papers. You did this."

"But you don't know that for sure!" Marigold interjected, stubbornness getting the better of her. "I'll gladly take the blame, but first we should examine all of the facts! I took him to work earlier and he exhausted himself coming up with a story about his past… he has a troubled past… filled with regret-"

"Regret is not the culprit here, young lady. I'd be surprised if your lack of restraint doesn't kill him. Tonight."

As his eyes fluttered open, Tavington found himself in a familiar space. It appeared as though he had nodded off at that quiet campsite beside the stream. He could hear his fellow officers bickering over a crackling fire and also, footsteps. Not aggressive footsteps, no. But graceful and light as a gentle fawn approaching the water. A leftwards turn revealed their source.

Sweet young Annabelle Casey, clothed in billowing attire approached him on her bare, lilywhite feet. He rose with every intention to hold her near and never let go. Quickly, he discovered not only her transparency but his own.

"I must have died," he whispered, "and gone to heaven. Oh, my sweet angel…"

Annabelle stepped out of his embrace, rejecting each caress with sorrowful eyes. "I have lost you, William," she had to turn away, to shield herself from his loving stare, "I knew it was a very real possibility going in, but I… I didn't know that saving you would hurt so much. You love her."

"I love her because she is you," he protested. "Isn't she?"

"Yes. And no. She is a shadow, a reflection. But also entirely her own. And therefore, we are separate. I've watched her all her life, waiting for her strength to grow. Knowing that once she was strong enough, I would be able to send you to her as a living memory and that she could aid you in rewriting your past. That she could deliver you from your guilt and into peace. But I couldn't foresee any of this…"

Tavington reached for her hand. Finally, Annabelle caved and accepted it. "Strong enough to do what? What does Marigold have to do?"

"There was a moment between us that I would like to change. One that would allow you to return to England with honor. Until Marigold takes that journey, you must suffer. Your heart must be weakened by your own guilt."

The love in Tavington's eyes shifted. He knew how these "journeys" worked. He resented Annabelle, if only for a moment. "You mean to say that Marigold… my Marigold must die… again?"

"Just long enough to save you. Because she is strong, she will come back. And face the world without you. She will be the one to raise your daughter alone."

"And you and I?"

"Will be at peace, William." She smiled. "Free from the pains of the world…"

He turned away entirely, crouching beside the stream. "And Marigold will be alone to suffer… there has to be another way. And there is! We discovered a way, Annabelle, to strengthen my heart."

Annabelle knelt beside him on the rocky riverbank. "I know of what you speak," her sorrow weighed down his hope, "by robbing her of each heartbeat and placing them into your chest. You two achieve this through intimacy. Another development that I was unable to foresee…" she moved her hand across his face, memorizing it, as if it was the last time that she would ever see him. "I love you. I have always loved you. That is why I wish to give you a third option. But it will be painful, William. A life with Marigold? That is what you truly desire?"

They stood, simultaneously. Not breaking their closeness for a second. "It is."

"Instead of an eternity with me?"

He pulled away, realizing for the first time all the subtle differences between Annabelle and Marigold. Annabelle, for one, was younger. Her eyes, the same as her "reflection's" in so many ways, possessed more innocence, more sensitivity. The fire in Marigold's eyes were traded out for gentleness, the lust in them for a rare kind of virginal purity. Bidding farewell to Annabelle would be nothing short of a death in his eyes, a severance from the only thing in his dreadful past that he looked back on with fondness. She could see his decision long before he could articulate it and those eyes, so loving, so pure were overcome with pain.

"Then you must let go of your past entirely. The war, all your laurels and accolades. And me. If you cannot push all these essential pieces of what makes you… you, then your heart will fade away like the final note of a sweet song. If you truly allow yourself to live by only the light of love that Marigold has wrapped around you, then you will survive."

She turned to leave, but Tavington drew her in. "Annabelle," he kissed her forehead softly, "dear Annabelle. I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. Catching fireflies in the schoolyard, remember?"

"I do. And I will never forget. That glimmer of whimsy in her eye. You know the one of which I speak. When she says something absurd or silly? That sort of gentle madness? That is where you will find me. Always. My father once told me that my joy was his greatest treasure. Yours is my own. Be joyful together! Tell jokes, be spontaneous… and don't weep for the past. Be joyful in the time that I have given you… and that you have given yourself." On her command, he released her from his arms. "Farewell, my one and only love. We won't meet again." With that, her form broke apart and drifted away like a wave of smoke upon the breeze.

Marigold paced nervously in the brightly lit waiting room. She'd taken Tavington's flannel with her instead of a sweater. Not on purpose so much as out of the oblivion of panic. She moved the sleeve against her nose as she walked, the shirt smelled like him and combined with its warmth, it was nearly a simulation of being held. She passed by an aquarium each time she crossed the room. In it, a cluster of young angel fish bobbed against a motorized current. She selected one out of the bunch, the smallest, and watched him fall behind with each passing.

Not only did she cheer the runt on, she put herself in his position and slowed her pace to match his. It was a silly game, but it kept her nerves at bay. At least until the wide doors of the surgical wing were opened. As the hours danced on into morning, the room had cleared out, making her the only person who was waiting for someone.

"William Tavington, correct?!" Marigold shouted before his doctor, who she knew by name, had time to speak.

"Good news, Miss Casey," the sharp eyed woman said with a grin.

Marigold's reaction wasn't too far from if it had been bad news. She turned away and leaned against a chair, finally allowing herself to break down and cry.

"Very good news, as a matter of fact," Dr. Meisner wasted no time and plopped down in the chair that Marigold was practically weeping over. "We were able to locate and mend the abnormality in William's heart. Am I good or am I good!? Now, he will need routine checkups, of course and I do recommend taking it easy for a couple of weeks. That might mean a little less fun on your honeymoon... yeah, these walls have many ears- congratulations, by the way-"

"Does this give us more than 18 months?" Marigold managed to ask.

"Assuming there's nothing that I overlooked… and hear me when I say one abnormality usually leads to another, I'd say yes. Definitely. He has a long and happy life ahead of him."

Their engagement enabled Marigold to be treated like Tavington's family, rather than an unrelated visitor. She was permitted to remain by his side throughout the entire grueling recovery process. During the first post-operative hour, he awoke periodically. Each time, he was paled, delirious and completely parched. Marigold begged the nurse to allow him to have water and when she finally budged, Tavington was unable to keep it down.

Marigold didn't look away once. It was excruciating to see him so sick. The redness in the whites of his blue eyes and their heavy glaze of tears were almost too much for her to bear. But she remained loyal and watchful. Every tremble, every moan, every time the overload of drugs in his system was rejected by his stomach, Marigold was there, experiencing his pain as if it was her own. Her only regret was not being present for the aftermath of his first exploratory surgery. It must have been hell for him to go through all alone.

The worse was over at around 3 PM, giving Marigold a good twenty minutes with him before she was due to arrive at work. He had yet to awaken and was going to be held overnight for observations. Leaving him was the hardest part, but Marigold knew that asking Giselle for a favor after the events of the other day would be imprudent. She also found comfort in the fact that the staff was going to allow her to stay the night. After a challenging evening at South and a quick visit to Moxie, she returned to find him exactly where she had left him.

Marigold awoke at six the next morning by default and leaned across his bed. She found just as much enjoyment in watching him sleep as he did for her. Soft kisses to his lips usually went unnoticed when he was lost in a dream, so she did just that silently and without guilt. As she moved back to admire the handsome, angular features of his restful visage, he whispered to her. "Every morning?"

"Every morning." She confirmed, recalling the same promise that she had made to him only yesterday morning as she lay, naked in his arms. "Every morning for the rest of our long, happy life together."

Marigold expected to see happiness in his eyes, but as they unveiled themselves, she saw only sadness.

"I saw Annabelle," he grabbed hold of Marigold's hand, "and she gave me a choice. To be saved and spend an eternity with her, in peace… or to live one lifetime with you. I am letting the past go and in doing so, I let her go, too. That is why they were able to save me last night. Do you understand what that means?"

"No. I don't, Darling…"

"This is all we have, now. This one chance to join our lives as one. The name 'Tavington' remains a wicked name, a cursed name. In marrying me, that last name trail behind your first like a shadow. Once our lives have ended, you will find peace and the flames of hell will consume me. And it is all because of that precious nineteen-year-old child who stole my heart away in the schoolyard all those years ago. She has made me a living memory and given me a final chance at happiness before I face the eternal condemnation that my wickedness has earned me. Will you still love me?"

"Yes," she vowed, "through all eternity and through all eternity, I shall bear your name. I will be proud to call myself 'Tavington'. To me, that name is a shelter, a shield, a fortress. A place in which all the joy and hope in my heart will be able to flourish to its fullest potential," she watched as Tavington grazed the diamond on her ring with his fingertip, "all I feel when I look at you is love, my sweet William. Never shame. If shame is what you feel when you gaze into the past, then let us be rid of it! Let us rejoice for our future, instead."

Most of the snow had thawed when the morning of the 18th arrived. Excitement prompted them to rise earlier than usual and ready themselves for the drive to Charleston. An extended period of sipping coffee in bed was in order before showering.

"You really lucked out, marrying me!" Marigold placed her cheek against his chest as she gave him a childlike bearhug. Tavington could see the wide smile that graced her face in the mirror across the room and couldn't help but hold her just as tightly.

"I should think so!"

"Do you want to know why?!" She practically skipped on her way to the bathroom to get her shower started.

"Because you are outrageously adorable?" It was true, of course. Her jovial gait paired with her button-down pajamas and fuzzy yellow slipper socks was enough to make anyone feel as though they had a batch of sugar cookies baking in their soul. You heard me.

"Because I'm not a bridezilla! That's why I'll surely rue the day Giselle gets married! She's going to be a complete disaster. Not me! I like things nice and simple…"

Tavington headed over to the sink and prepared to shave. He'd become quite skillful at using a modern razor, but still struggled with the can of shaving cream. Marigold had to demonstrate it for him before hopping into the shower. "Do you think that shaving cream counts as an aphrodisiac?" He watched closely as she undressed in the corner of the room. The temptation was far too great and he ultimately resolved to picking her up and propping her on the counter before she was able to turn on the water.

"Dr. Meisner wants you to be careful. Just for a while, William."

"This isn't about me," he lowered his lips until the landed gracefully upon the lovely, pink territory between her legs, "today is only for you."

Marigold leaned her back against the mirror and guided him inward. Every touch of his mouth was deep and filled with passion, but also exceptionally gentle. He didn't need to be harsh with her to get a response. A growing intensity in his caresses combined with a sensual, waltz-like rhythm brought her to his ideal tension. A change in pace while pulling her body closer led her straight into the realm of pure ecstasy. Her orgasms were never false or contrived. Instead, they were stunning proclamations of love that traveled through the air like a recitation or psalm. Over time, Tavington would come to know each one as if by name- a language of their own creation. He continued to hold her close, but journeyed upward. They didn't regain eye contact with one another until after his head rested a while in the valley between her small breasts.

"You should probably shave your face now, Soldier" Marigold joked, pushing his hair back and away from his brow, "you're a bit prickly." A breathy laugh moved from his mouth and across her skin like a gust of wind. "Go on, now. Go get handsomer. If such a thing is possible."

She did try on the dress the day that it arrived, just to ensure that she wouldn't need to go after it with her sewing machine before the wedding. For the drive there, Marigold selected one of her usual floral frocks with tights and a knit sweater. It was going to be a small, simple ceremony for everyone involved in it and neither Marigold nor Tavington wanted it to be a stressful day for anyone.

The preparation was just as laidback and pleasant as the drive to the theatre. Marigold readied herself in the lady's dressing room downstairs- the same room that she used to dress herself for performances in as a girl. As Giselle helped with her hair, they reminisced about their theatre days.

"We must have been about eleven at the time-" Giselle pinned several strands of baby's breath into the thick braid that went halfway down Marigold's back, "-and I secretly hated your guts! For like… half of the run, anyway. Until you defended me when I couldn't get the choreography right in 'Summer Nights'…"

"You did a very good job at hiding it. Your resentment would have gone completely unnoticed if you hadn't started screaming at Louisa about giving me the part instead…"

"I was mostly pissed that you got to wear that leather pantsuit during the final number. Ugh. And smooch and dance with Travis Banks! Mostly smooch. What a dream!"

Marigold rolled her eyes and handed Giselle another sprig of flowers and several bobby pins. "He was obviously gay. Most men who play Danny Zuko are. It's the same deal with Conrad Birdie…"

"Seems logical. I think our summer in the chorus of "Bye Bye Birdie" mellowed out our egos some…"

"Oooh! And then there was the year we were Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer in "CATS!" Talking about type casting… this is the last bit of baby's breath..." She handed her the remainder of her embellishments and grew silent as the final piece was placed.

"I'm very happy for you, by the way," Giselle ironed out a wrinkle in Marigold's cap sleeve with her hand. "It's clear to me now that he's the one you were waiting for your entire life. I guess it's just hard for me to let you go…"

"Remember when we were in "White Christmas" together?!" Marigold was clearly still set on talking about their days performing on the stage that she was about to be married on. "And we sang that song?!"

Their eyes locked and warmed immediately. "Sisters, sisters. There were never such devoted sisters." Giselle grabbed a pair of white patent flats from the greasepaint-stained counter and slipped them onto Marigold's feet. "Now, that was a typecast."

"A foreshadowing. Because that's exactly what we grew to be." She looked over at the clock. "Ten more minutes. You should probably get out there."

Once Marigold was on her feet, they nearly embraced, but Giselle stopped herself. "You never would have forgiven me so quickly before. You might have over time, of course. I know how unconditional your love is. But no person alive is that strong. Was it because of him? William?"

"Yes," she hugged Giselle regardless and kept her close as she spoke, "I've come to find recently that love and strength aren't so different after all. Why take love away from someone when you can instead help it to flourish? You did a terrible thing and I will always bear that scar. But I know that you were wounded by Henry's death, too. I think that's why I acted so possessive that one day when I came home and found you with William. My mind was still making sense of things even after all these years. The pictures that Henry sketched on the napkins, the books that he read about her… you knew long before I did. How the Shippen family broke apart and some headed South. How the name 'Zipp' was born from its ashes. He wanted to find you and somehow, something inexplicable happened between us. That fleeting love that soon grew hollow. You held your tongue to protect me and I know that you both restrained yourselves on my behalf. It is no tragedy, Giselle, but a thing of beauty. How Annabelle Casey and Peggy Shippen would restlessly roam the world as… as William put it… living memories. And somehow, became the best of friends."

"Then that would mean…" Giselle continued to cling to Marigold as if she was a lonesome rock amidst the swelling waves of a tempest, "that he really is The Butcher. And you alone turned him into something new."

"He always was a good man. Annabelle was the first to see it. I merely picked up where she left off…"

A knock on the dressing room door caused them both to jump out of their embrace. "Entrez-vous!" Giselle shouted, all sarcasm.

"You girls about done in here?" Louisa Zipp wove through the cramped space, her blonde curls bouncing in every direction. "I have a message for the bride from the groom. Don't look so frazzled, he doesn't have cold feet." She tossed a small white envelope on the counter and sped away with just as much energy as before.

As Marigold broke into the envelope, a white ribbon, distressed from years of use, fell into her hand. A notecard followed. It read, very simply, "For Annabelle." She carefully moved the end of her braid over her shoulder and tied the ribbon onto it with care. "For Annabelle," she repeated to herself.

 **Silly Footnote: So… Banastre Tareleton's birthday is a week from today. Please tell me I'm not the only person preparing baked goods for the occasion. Do you think he would approve of cupcakes, or was he more of a muffin guy? Hmmm… decisions… (The story isn't over, by the way.)**


	21. Mawage

At the back of the house, there was a curtain. Thick and dark. Anyone who attended a show at Theatre Zipp would pass through it on the way to their seats. It was a lovely ritual, one that allowed you to leave yourself behind at the door, suspend your disbelief and transform along with the performers on stage. Marigold would leave something else behind that curtain, something that she would never possess again. The Casey name, respected by the locals and treated like a tourist attraction by all others would no longer be her own.

Obligations at work made it so that Jake would be unable to attend and Jack hadn't spoken to her since the day that Tavington's heart first failed. There was no Casey present to walk her down the aisle, no Casey present to give her away at the altar. So, she stood in the darkness and prepared to make the walk all alone. The rolling notes that played beneath the melody of that familiar song served as her cue to lift the edge of the dark, velvet fabric and step into the sunlit space.

The time of day was more than ideal for the light to travel through the theatre's many stained-glass windows. A mosaic of colors and shapes coated the aisles like a transparent blanket. Around and beneath those shifting hues, Marigold was greeted by more familiar faces than she'd anticipated. The increase in guests was surely Giselle's doing. While she was excited to see just how many Waterfordians had taken the day to drive all the way to Charleston on their behalf, her eyes stopped when they reached William Tavington.

He was a dream. His long hair was fixed just neatly enough to pair perfectly with his three-piece suit, but he remained just as ruggedly handsome as ever. All that he could do was smile as he watched Marigold. Through his eyes, there had never been a more beautiful bride. His exuberant little hummingbird had been cast in the role of a swan and she played the part beautifully. The usual skip in her walk had smoothed out, her radiant smile was placed in soft-focus behind the waves of her veil, but it was her strength, her fearlessness for the future that pushed her forward. Step by elegant step.

When Marigold reached the center of the house, two figures moved in and started to walk along beside her. The first, Tavington knew as Jake Casey. The second received an unusual reaction from Marigold- an expression that read as both overjoyed and melancholy. He looked like Jake, but was certainly a cleaner cut fellow. No moustache, no buzzcut, just a handsome, refined man with telltale Casey features.

"That was a surprising entrance," were the only words that Marigold could give to her brothers.

"We thought swooping in like birds of prey would be intimidating." Jake linked arms with his sister immediately, but Jack was a bit more hesitant.

"You flew all the way here?" She turned to Jack, brushing her hand against his.

Jack not only accepted her silent request, but took her hand in his and gave it the smallest, sweetest kiss. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world." He looked to Tavington. "He appears to be a decent enough guy... could use a haircut. But I know you've always had a thing for hippies..."

"He is not a hippie, trust me." Marigold shook her head, still smiling, still entranced by her beautifully statuesque husband-to-be.

"That song they're playing over there is by John Denver. You're both a bunch of hippies!" Jake chimed in.

"Thank you, by the way, Jack…" She seemed to ignore Jake's comment. "For everything that you've done for us recently. William wouldn't be here today if it weren't for you."

"Shake n' Bake! And I helped!" Jake was clearly feeling rather left out. Fortunately for him, a handful of guests heard him and he received several bewildered chuckles. Even Tavington appeared to be amused. Confused, but amused.

"Don't mind us. The family of assorted nuts is just having a small reunion…" Jake winked at Giselle and moved to stand by her side on the steps leading up to the stage.

Jack remained with Marigold for a few beats longer before turning to Tavington who met him not with his usual sideways grin, but a genuine, gracious smile. "William?" He gave Marigold's hand a second, small kiss before leading it to be held by Tavington's. "Welcome to the family."

The quartet cut out and the animated Steve Martin prototype called Pastor Benson began his address. "Family, friends… Romans, Countrymen. Forgive an old thespian. Try not to throw food. Unless of course it is cake. Bite-size pieces of cake. Thrown into my mouth." Tavington raised his eyebrow at Marigold, who merely reddened in embarrassment. Their beautiful ceremony was about to get whacky. Pastor Benson was a friend of the Zipp family and just as much of a character as anyone else Tavington had met in his bride's inner circle. "Today is a very important day. Because it is the 18th of November. And that can only mean one thing. That it is National Apple Cider Day. As a longtime patron of this theatre, I would assume that the lovely Mizz Zipp- Louisa? Where are you, gorgeous? Take a bow! No? Alrighty then… I would assume that Miss Zipp would understand that I am usually down on Benson Farm selling overpriced, tepid apple juice to tourists on this day each year. But you see, Cats, when I was asked to come down here and join this little goofball to her beau in holy macaroni, I simply couldn't let this opportuna-casserole pass me- can you tell I'm hungry? Let's speed things up. Marigold?"

"Yes?" She and Tavington appeared to be either on the verge of laughing or crying. Or a little bit of both.

"You're blushing, sweetheart. You should have some wine, I heard it helps. Or maybe it's the other way around. I wouldn't know, of course, because I'm a pastor. How am I doing? Am I nailing it or am I bombing?"

"You are simply nailing it, Pastor Benson!" Marigold projected in her best stage voice.

"What can I say? I like to ham things up! Marigold and I go way back! We have fun, don't we, Mare? She will always be the Audrey to my Orin Scrivello. Great show. A little birdie named Giselle told me that your dashing groom is a plant lover. You would have loved Marigold as Audrey, but you also would have loved Audrey II, Mr… Taaaaa-"

"Tavington." Giselle shouted from the wings, quietly loving Pastor Benson's little "performance".

"Tavington. I'll get to you in a minute, Mare. First, Mr. Tavington and I need to have a little chat. So, William…" He removed a notecard and a pair of comically oversized glasses from his pocket. "Banastre. Seriously? Like those things that you sit on to slide down a staircase when your folks aren't looking and it's fun!? Righteous! I should have been a Brit! That's my one beef with God. Yes, I'm allowed to have those. William Banastre Taving… ton, do you take this wonderful little noisemaker of a humanoid, Marigold Victoria Casey, to be your old ball n' chain? Do you promise to let her pick the restaurant even when she's got the pizza jones, but you're totes in the mood for tacos? Really? I think you've found a keeper here, Mare! Will you honor her, tell her that those printed leggings do, in fact, add 10 pounds the first time around so she'll quit wearing them in the first place? We're coming into the home stretch, Boy, you're doing great! Do you promise to be faithful to her and love her from this day forward, for as long as you both shall live?"

"Do I get to say 'I do' now?" Tavington grinned, almost shyly.

"What do you guys think, should I let him off the hook?" Nearly every one of the guests said "yes", save for Tommy Martin, who was slouching lowly in the front row with his feet on the stage. "Sure! Why not!?"

A smile, more charming and endearing than anything Marigold had ever seen graced his eyes and face. "I do."

"Marigold!" Pastor Benson did a slow, mock-seductive walk across the stage. "Your turn, hot stuff! Marigold Victoria Casey. Of the Waterford Caseys. Nutcase, teacher, thespian… prospective beekeeper. So… This guy sounds pretty great, right?! He's going to let you have pizza and everything! But just so we're clear, do you take William Banastre Tavington… rockin' cool name and all, to be your hubby? Even if he becomes your Chubby Hubby after all that eating out? That was the caterer's cue to find me some Ben and Jerry's. Do you promise to care for him and not be offended when he asks you to make him a sandwich… occasionally? Will you love him, support his impending midlife crises… they're on their way, trust me. When they hit, they hit hard. Especially since he's so into plants. If you catch him singing to them, it's best to just let him finish… Do you promise to be faithful to him and only a little bit judgmental towards him when he really, really deserves it… from this day forward for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Marigold gave Tavington's hand a tiny squeeze, "to all of the above."

A small, tissue paper parachute fell clumsily from the catwalk and landed on the stage, several inches from Pastor Benson's boots. "Gotta love showbiz…" He swept the contraption off the floor and untied their simple, silver wedding bands. "I take it Giselle made this? Yup. That's what I thought. Okay. If you haven't had any major epiphanies since the last time we spoke, Marigold, you get some jewelry! But you don't get to keep it! William, you get one, too. But you don't get to keep it, either." Once the rings were in their possession, they were exchanged. Marigold felt a small tear forming in the corner of her eye as the band clicked against her engagement ring.

"Then by the power vested in me by the state of South Carolina… oh, yes they did! I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Tavington. But you still have to sign a small tree worth of paperwork in the back room before you leave. Hubby, go ahead and kiss your Hummingbird! Hummingbird, try not to fly away!"

Tavington gently swept the veil up and over Marigold's flower-adorned head and gave her cheek a quick caress. "Don't fly away on me now."

"You should see his sermons! Sorry if that was weird…" she whispered, inches from his lips.

"It was unique. But I loved every strange, wonderful second of it. Plus, it was to be expected. I did, after all, just marry a Casey…"

"A Tavington."

Their smiling lips touched and quickly relaxed into one another, creating a light, darling kiss. They parted seconds later laughing, dazed and absolutely elated. This would set the tone for their entire marriage, it seemed. It would be a time in their lives that overflowed with joy, laughter, and love. The "small tree" of paperwork that Pastor Benson had spoken of turned out to be a single, official certificate that was significantly less intimidating than he made it sound. Somebody had placed a sticky note on top of its title that read "Declaration of Dependence" and while the culprit never emerged, there were suspicions that it had been someone from the Martin family…

The reception took place in a large room that usually served as a rehearsal space. A small, portable platform was assembled in the back for, yet another surprise that Giselle prepared for the Tavingtons. "Benny" Martin, Tess and (with much reluctance) Tommy performed live music in full costume. They called themselves "Benny and the Jetpacks" simply because Waterfordians don't know how to do "normal". Not only were they all wearing roller skates (a shameless promotion for the roller rink that Benny managed, no doubt) but they were clothed in steampunk attire. It seemed ridiculous at first, sort of a pedestrian take on "Starlight Express", but the music was first class and pure Rockabilly.

As Tommy performed a teary-eyed rendition of the otherwise cheerful tune, "Miss You Miss Belinda", which he dedicated to his beloved detention teacher; Giselle and Marigold briefed Tavington on how to swing dance.

"You really don't have to worry about looking like an idiot," Giselle screamed over the band as she threw Marigold into an impromptu do-si-do, "because that's kind of the idea!"

"I don't believe I'll have any trouble with that, Miss Zipp," Tavington jumped in and stole Marigold away, matching the beat with perfection.

"I should say not. I'm going to make your brother's day and ask him for a dance," Giselle gave them a wink and shuffled away with a twist of her pink poodle skirt.

"So," as Tavington held Marigold close, Tommy slowed the tempo down even more. At least for a few measures. Thankfully, Benny rolled across the stage and commandeered the microphone just in time to save the song. "If Giselle is Peggy Shippen and Henry is John Andre… doesn't that leave Jake in the same position that you were in when you married Henry?"

Marigold looked across the dance floor. Jake and Giselle were slow dancing behind the beat hardly caring that other couples were bumping into them. "I'm not sure. All I know is… Henry and I never looked that happy."

Several songs in, Jake and Giselle started passing out homemade cupcakes and plastic flutes of champagne. Most couples hardly felt weighed down by this little development and continued dancing, but Tavington pulled two chairs together in the corner of the room and had his champagne while Marigold rested her head on his shoulder. It was around this time that they were visited by Jack.

Marigold was thrilled that he hadn't left. But still didn't quite know how to speak to him after everything they'd been through. "Have a seat, Brother! And a cupcake!"

"Oh, I've already had about three! That Giselle sure knows how to cook!"

"She makes a mean hummingbird cake! C'mon admit it, you miss Southern cuisine…" as Marigold sat up in her chair, she kept Tavington's hand in hers, periodically touching the new ring around his finger.

"The fare is certainly different up in D.C." Jack cleared his throat, preparing to talk business. As was his way. "I heard about your successful surgery, William. Congratulations. I also understand that you two are looking to relocate…"

Tavington shook his head. "It wouldn't be a big move by any standards. Just outside of town, in the country. Waterford is Marigold's home, after all."

"Well… if you ever feel a need to escape the area entirely. Get a fresh start. You know who to call. Now, I'm going to have to head back but before I do, would you mind if I dance with my sister?"

Being able to dance with, let alone see, Jack was a treasure. But after a brief reunion, dancing to Benny's spin on George Thorogood's "I've Got My Eyes on You", he left the room and his sister's life once more without a trace. The music only lasted a while longer. The Martins gave the stage up to Giselle who never shied away from the opportunity to belt out a showtune or two. She even invited Marigold up towards the end because honestly, the wedding wouldn't have been complete without them taking a stab at "Marry the Man Today" from Guys and Dolls or resurrecting a staple from their high school production of Cinderella (the "Stepsister's Lament", obviously…)

While the girls were having a blast on stage, Benny approached Tavington. His steampunk gear paired with the aftermath of several glasses of champagne relieved nearly all the tension that Tavington had feared this inevitable meeting would surely evoke.

"Well, well, well…" Benny pulled his goggles onto his forehead, causing his hair to spike out comically around the edges, "Waterford gained itself a Tavington today. That'll be an interesting footnote in the history books to come, ay?"

"Undoubtedly," Tavington found that keeping a watchful eye on Marigold as she grapevine'd across the stage in her pretty white frock that fit just right in all the right places helped him along. The involuntary backwards drift caused by Benny's roller skates and occasional scoot back in Tavington's direction did the rest. "Marigold and I were very happy that you came today. The entire Martin family! Your sister, Tess, was so accommodating and kind to me when I first arrived here..."

"Did you know," he took a swig of champagne, correcting his skates "that the Caseys and the Martins go back, too? Not just the Martins and the Tavingtons. We both know how that ended. No pressure. Now, it's just a theory. But I read years ago that the daughter of Solomon Casey enlisted in the militia under a false name. She had everyone fooled, even pretended to be mute. And Old Benjamin Martin took her under his wing. Until her identity was compromised, anyway. Marigold is as good as family. Even before I read about how we were connected… now she's a Tavington… again, what a footnote!"

When the reception finally started to wind down, Giselle presented Marigold with her last surprise. An overnight stay in a historic bed and breakfast by the harbor. She promised to keep Moxie company and see to it that she was fed and watered until their return on Sunday. Giselle was properly thanked and hugged from both of the Tavingtons and the satisfied guests spilled out into the snowy street, parting ways in every direction. Marigold remained in her wedding dress, but pulled on her tights and a sweater before leaving the church with her new husband. They fed the meter just enough coinage to cater to their extended visit in Charleston and raced to the bed and breakfast in the snow.

Stepping into the colonial style inn that Giselle had selected for them was like traveling back in time. Although it was small and cramped for the most part, it was furnished with priceless antiques and nearly all the walls were adorned with old paintings. Tavington dwelled just a little bit longer in the hallway than he normally would have on his wedding night, simply admiring his surroundings. He seemed surprisingly disinterested in the portraiture and other historical paintings. This puzzled Marigold, but only slightly. To her, he very well may have stepped out of one and into her life. Perhaps engaging with the portraits and war scenes would be a step backwards. The depictions of flora and fauna, cityscapes and sailing ships captivated him. Marigold followed several paces behind, admiring something else entirely- the tiny snowflakes that lingered still in his dark waves and the wonder in his eyes as he made these new connections. She didn't know this at the time, but he was using the images and furnishings to suture himself into the 1700's again and create a new narrative for his past. This could only last so long and finally, the found their room.

"Maybe Jack was on to something," Marigold pondered, looking out the window at their view of the newly darkened streets below, "I've been thinking about the dream that you and I had the other night. About the airplane. So much of what you are trying to escape is in Waterford. Maybe by going far away…"

Tavington stepped in behind her, placed his chin on her shoulder and arms around her waist. They took in the view as their snow-freckled exteriors dried and warmed. "If we are to travel, it should be in the name of adventure. I know that you love your home. It would be wicked to part a flower from her roots."

Marigold turned, returning her cheek to its favorite place in the world- beside his beating heart. "Then let's start there. I want to go on an adventure with you…"

 **Author's Note: So, there will be a small stylistic change in the final chapters. Obviously, you know that I have addressed William as "Tavington" throughout the story. This was okay early on and I stuck with it for consistency, but now that "Tavington" is Marigold's last name, it makes better sense to address him as "William" in my narrations. This will be changed for the entire story when I finally have time to revise it in the coming months. Also, Victoria, I think you're spot on with that one. Cupcakes it is! Huzzah!**


	22. The First Adventure

On Monday, normalcy would set in again. It was pertinent that they make the most of their Sunday in Charleston. There was more conversation on their wedding night than one might expect and it turned out to be very much like a giggle-infused sleepover between best friends. If holding your best friend near and tight with minimal clothing the whole night through is your thing. William did most of the talking, to Marigold's surprise. He always was an excellent negotiator, but after spending nearly every waking moment over the last month with Marigold, he was quickly becoming a skilled conversationalist as well.

"Oregon-bound on a recreational vehicle it is!" He planted a soft kiss between her breasts, capturing a tiny flicker of her heartbeat on the corner of his mouth. "And assuming everything goes well this summer, then next summer we can visit Liverpool. What we'll do is start a savings for our travels, separate from our savings for the farm. It will be flexible, too. So, if we stumble upon a piece of land that we fall in love with out in the big, wide world… well…"

"I like it! But let us not forget college savings for Mabel. While I plan on supporting every single one of her endeavors, she should do something other than dressage."

"Mabel?" William's kisses traveled to below Marigold's navel, but he suspended all temptations to rest both hands on her stomach and contemplate on their presently unconceived daughter. "Sort of a fusion of 'Marigold' and 'Annabelle'. Or simply that obnoxious coloratura from Pirates of Penzance…"

"I also like Melissa. It means honeybee. Have you thought of any names, William?".

"Certainly not. I've only ever named horses. Up to this point, I've been calling her Buttercup in my mind…" his caresses softened as they shared a brief laugh.

"Buttercup is definitely her palomino! You know, I heard her singing that song again the other night? Of course, I'm not one to speak. Marigold is likely a common nomenclature in many stables. How about Mayfair?"

"That would be far too British, I rather like Mabel…" William began to massage her lowermost anatomy. The strokes of his tongue grew broad and bold upon her first sigh of elation.

"I do, too. It's a bit old fashioned, but sweet. If we go with Mabel, we'd have an excuse to use that ridiculous nursery rhyme should she misbehave in the dining room."

"And which nursery rhyme is that?"

"Mabel, Mabel. If you're able, get your elbows off the table. This is not a horse's stable, but a fancy dining table!"

William laughed, throwing off his pace. Marigold found the push of warm breath to a divine addition to his oral lovemaking and threw her leg over his shoulder, begging for more. "You just made that up…"

"I did not. I actually think it originated in England…"

"Plenty of obscurities have, I suppose." He gave her a quick wink before losing himself in her softness and warmth. Even before their intimate knowledge of one another grew, William seemed to understand that Marigold craved this bond; this softer form of lovemaking. His lips and tongue, the parents of conversation, seemed to whisper inaudible words straight into her soul. Their caresses, smooth and deep, had individual meanings. Each one resounded within her, making her feel comforted and loved. It was as essential as a ray of sunlight gliding across the petals of a flower, gifting them with color and life.

Her final sigh of satisfaction remained in the air like mist from a waterfall. The noise fell gradually from the heavens, covering William and filling him with love. Marigold's eyes remained closed, the only motion that she produced was the softest heaving in her breast. William covered her, flesh to flesh, heart to heart. As his mouth interlocked with hers, she sighed again halfway through and awoke from her temporary slumber. A quick laugh wrinkled her tiny nose.

"I just realized something naughty," her tongue touched the edge of her front teeth, resulting in a quirky grin.

"Oh, Mrs. Tavington! How can anyone think dirty thoughts while looking so adorable?"

"You know how your fetish is this, after I do… you know… to your you-know-what?" she wiped the edge of her lips with her finger, "I think I just found mine…"

"Oh, dear…" he kissed her forehead and asked her to conclude her thought. He truly was enticed, but remained coy.

"Being able to taste myself in your kiss…" The seductiveness of this blatant comment sparked a change in their heartbeats and within several beautiful moments of strictly tangible foreplay, he was inside of her. They broke out of their kiss every now and then, surfacing for air like divers on a stormy sea. Each time, William would compensate with an urgent whisper, "I love you." Their intensities mirrored one another and as they reached the summit of their affection, those words were traded for desperate grasps to one another's shoulders. She wanted him to drown her, to cover her entirely. For fear of adding too much weight, he directed her to lean against the headboard and that was where they remained, hardly caring for the banging that traveled through the bed and breakfast's thin walls until after they reached an equally noisy completion. Not only had they dented the ornate headboard, but had dislodged it from the bed frame with a terrible "bang".

"We're going to get in trouble," Marigold caught her breath in the safe haven of dark hair between William's left ear and shoulder. The heavyset inn owner could be heard climbing the staircase soon after. "Damn…"

William grabbed one of the two white bathrobes that they had borrowed with the room and crept out the front door. The woman who owned the inn whispered angrily in the hallway and came in shortly after to assess the damage and scowl at a very naked Marigold. "She's kicking us out." He crossed his arms and sat on the edge of the bed.

"You're kidding me…"

"Either we leave now or Giselle pays for the headboard."

Marigold placed her hand over her mouth, but it was no use. She erupted with laughter as she started to dress. "What a fucking sweetheart," she hissed, "we should probably leave a twenty or something just in case. Oh, and let her keep the champagne…"

Sunrise was several hours away when they reached the parking meter and sped away with the heater going at full blast. "Alright. No B&B's when we go cross-country." Marigold wiped her red nose as her fitful laughter commenced. "We really messed up on the bed part. It's too early for breakfast. What would you like to do?"

"Well," William warmed his hands over the vent, "how far away is the nearest beach?"

"Ha! You really are a crazy bastard. I love it! Not far at all. There's even one with big rocks like Cannon Beach. I showed you a picture of it earlier, remember? It's in Oregon?"

He didn't need any convincing whatsoever. "Onward! It will be the first adventure of the Tavingtons!" Ten minutes into the drive, William started humming a song that Benny and the Jetpacks performed at the reception.

"It sounds to me like you're an official Rockabilly loving Waterfordian now!" Marigold started to hum along. "Tess got me into that genre ages ago. It was a total domino effect…"

"It's quite infectious, yes. Benny should make records. If he hasn't already."

"Okay," Marigold pointed to the passenger-side floor, "reach into my tote, pull out my cellphone. Do you know how to open iTunes?" William flipped the screen around, he was way ahead of her. "You're such a 21st century man! Benny's biggest influence is an artist called Lee Rocker. Your brain itch is the second track on his "Night Train to Memphis" album. Plug that puppy in and let's jam!"

The beach that Marigold had in mind was roughly a twenty-minute drive and the severe lack of traffic shortened the trip. They managed to locate a tiny Northwestern-style espresso drive through that was open 24/7 and ordered two hot chocolates. She knew a beach neighborhood that wasn't regularly patrolled and they snuck into a cliffside scenic point and marveled at the view.

"I feel like I'm back in college," Marigold confessed, draining her hot chocolate, "by the time I graduated, I was a pro at outsmarting the coppers. You must if you want to watch the sunrise at the beach. The real sunrise- from beginning to end without being hit in the face by some stupid tourist's beach ball. You know what else I liked to do?" Mischief, pure mischief entered her green eyes as she unbuckled William's seatbelt and opened her door. "Come with me…"

They tiptoed down the sandy steps of a clumsily assembled walkway and headed towards a large ensemble of black, barnacle-covered rock formations that were spread along the foaming water's edge. She payed close attention to the texture of the rocks and the relationships that each of them had with the incoming waves. When she found one that was of her liking, she waited for the water to recede and started to climb.

"You're going to catch your death, Mrs. Tavington," William followed suit. "I shall have to keep you warm..."

"That's the idea," as she looked over her shoulder, her golden hair whipped about in the blustery, grey air. "Now, climb. It'll be a lot colder if the waves beat us to the top." The rock wasn't terribly high, twenty feet at most. When Marigold reached the dry space above the waterline, she stretched out against the cold, hard surface and pulled William in with a shiver and a smile. "Don't worry," said she, "we'll only feel the spray and vibration of the waves from up here."

Right she was. The weight of the ocean pounded against the rock in a way that was both gentle and soft at the same time. William reclined alongside Marigold, entranced by the warmth in her stare. "Put your ear against the rock. You can hear its reverberation." The low rumble that sounded all around them was paired with the pounding splashes of the waves. "Can you hear it? The land and the ocean are speaking to one another. I wonder what they're saying…"

They lay side by side, waiting for the sun to rise. Eventually, the tides turned and the damp rock began its slow process of drying beneath the newborn November sun. Marigold had drifted into a dream, but William continued to behold his wife with fondness. Bits of her hair blew across her face in the salty breeze and her pale complexion reddened as it warmed. She wasn't a 21st century woman, laying there on the shore. Nor was she a siren or an enchantress, but something far more sacred and ancient.

"You are wonder," he touched the side of her face as she awoke, "a divine symphony of all things good and fair pieced together in one. And you are my own."

A fine dusting of snow covered the streets of Waterford. When the Tavingtons arrived in the early evening, the sun had ducked behind the clouds again, producing just enough light for the ice to glisten on the buildings and sidewalks below. They hadn't lingered long in Charleston and had instead taken a detour through the country, just to acclimate themselves to the rural atmosphere. Sunday drives, they decided, would be a wonderful tradition to have.

Another small custom of married life that eased into that day was the simple task of picking the meals for the week. Henry was keen on eating out, so Marigold never had the luxury of coming up with a "menu", but William was different. He stormed through the market with Marigold at his side, deciding who would cook what on which day. Their marriage would be a collaboration. Taking turns with basic housekeeping wasn't a common concept in the 1700's, but his wife made it known early on that this was how she wanted to approach things, so William was more than accommodating.

Returning to the bungalow as a married couple was surreal. After a (not so) quick shower that they had been deprived of that morning, Marigold and William split the task of making a simple taco salad while sipping on chilled white wine. Moxie behaved for most of this, so long as she was given the occasional table scrap. A quiet evening by the fire followed, along with a lovely discussion about the properties that they had passed through during their drive.

"I know you think he's a weirdo," Marigold gave a smoking incense stick a tiny twist before setting it down on the mantle, "but we should pay a visit to Earl Appleby. Even if we do end up leaving South Carolina, he can give you some valid advice about farming horses in this century."

"You could also speak to the Appleby's about your bees," he pecked her cheek as she fell back into his arms. "There is something else to consider, of course. Your schoolhouse."

"Yes," Marigold watched the playful orange and yellow flames assume their own forms, like tiny performers in the fireplace's proscenium, "the schoolhouse is important. Not only to me, but…" she pondered a while longer, knowing what she must say and finding difficulty in those words, "If it will help you forget the past and focus on the present, I will gladly let it go."

Marigold decided the fate of the schoolhouse before that night. It had been her pet project, her dream. But now that she knew what William had sacrificed, the schoolhouse seemed to belong to an alternate version of herself. Those dreams that she had were decreasing in value as the plans for their family farm materialized into something very real.

In the weeks that followed, they not only met with Earl Appleby, but set the rental of an extension of his land into motion. This development was sudden, but essential and certainly was too good to pass up. It was a year-by-year lease and would enable them to work on the property as partners to the Applebys. Marigold could assist Freddie on his bee farm and even utilize her talent for teaching during his weekend beekeeping classes. William could work, not as an underling, but as an esteemed equestrian and instructor in the stables. In order to truly achieve this, Marigold prepared to part with the life that she had built for herself in Waterford. Come January, her bungalow and schoolhouse would no longer be hers. Come January, everything would change and not necessarily for the better...

 **Author's Note: Thank you so much for your lovely feedback on the last chapter! Pastor Benson's character was a blast to write! And Benny, too! Also, the comment about it being more like a play than a wedding was exactly what I was going for and I was seriously ecstatic to learn that it read that way. Next chapter will be longer; this one was more transitionary than anything, but hopefully entertaining regardless. X**


	23. The Unseen World

The Waterford Museum served as both a business and a home for the Casey Family for many years. Downstairs was marked off for exhibits while the upstairs quarters were kept private. In order for Marigold and her brothers to return to the comfort of their home, they would have to step over a long, velvet-wrapped cord at the base of a narrow wooden staircase at the museum's heart. Every day for seventeen years, little Marigold would pass up and over the cord, leaving behind the plethora of paintings, grainy black and white photos and cheaply constructed figurines below her. Parting was never sorrowful, for they would always be there to greet her in the morning after breakfast and to bid her goodnight at the end of the day.

Before Marigold befriended Giselle at the beginning of junior high, she didn't believe that her life was anything out of the ordinary. Spending time with the Zipps in a house that functioned traditionally, however, made her yearn for normalcy. The Schoolhouse and later, her bungalow, were therefore channels for both rebellion and nostalgia. While she had spent years dreaming of being an average Waterford girl in an average Waterford bungalow off Main Street; she remained a Casey. A landmark in and of herself.

The events of Halloween 2014 were rarely mentioned. Once everyone in Waterford learned of the gas leak that occurred after everyone returned home safely from the museum's annual party, Emmett and Saffron Casey were laid to rest, the newspapers were archived, and life moved on as it always manages to do. Our story opened with a brief summary of Marigold's inheritance of the Casey Schoolhouse- the one piece of history that her father was too timid to resurrect and lay bare before an eager public.

The Schoolhouse was her identity; the closest thing to a child she had ever anticipated on having. Well, that's the funny thing about endings, isn't it? Even they, in all their finality, must have beginnings as well. The final segment of our story opens on the day that Marigold truly began to let go of the Casey name and occupied her heart and mind with the legacy of her married name instead…

It happened on the first of December. One month before Marigold handed over the keys to her bungalow, one month before she locked up the schoolhouse for good. William was having a routine checkup with his cardiologist and, according to his texts, all was well. Instead of sitting in the waiting room like she normally did, Marigold passed the time by making a quick drop-in appointment across the hall. She returned several minutes before he stepped around the corner. All the while, her fingers longed to twist and crease the paper in her hands. But no, it would have to remain pristine. The nerves that were building up inside of her were nothing compared to her desire to make everything perfect for William.

"How did it go, Sweetheart?" She stood, still handling the document as if it were as fragile as damp tissue paper.

"It is exactly as we hoped for!" William exclaimed, "The monthly checkups are changing to tri-monthly and I won't need exploratory surgery again for another year. If nothing changes before then, of course." They breathed a mutual sigh of relief, embraced and started for the door, all smiles. Surely, nothing would change. Leaving Waterford for a quiet life in the country would sever him from his guilt, right? As William reached for her, he bumped the paper slightly and Marigold passed it to him in the place of her hand. "Is this for me?"

"It is," she followed behind him like an eager shadow as they stepped into the large, glass atrium where the hallways forked. He stopped abruptly in his tracks and read its contents thoroughly by the light of one of the window's many sunbeams. "Those take-home tests are usually pretty faulty. I wanted to do it here, just to be sure." Without so much as a word, he turned and gave her a deep, tearful kiss. "You're so sensitive!" Marigold beamed, caressing his damp, smiling face.

"You're pregnant?!" His blue eyes seemed to resurrect the same unbridled joy that they possessed when Marigold approached him at the altar.

"Aha! So, you can speak! I like to think of it as… we're pregnant. But yes! Two weeks in. She was probably conceived when we broke that headboard. We can say she started with a bang, just like Roxie Hart!" An offended cafeteria worker rolled past them with a cart of jiggling orange Jello cups. "And if you're worried about work, they totally manufacture maternity beekeeping suits as well-" William cut off her comment with a second kiss.

"I love you," his fingers glided across the smooth fabric of her dark floral dress, stopping when they reached her abdomen, "and I love you, too." He paused, only long enough to wipe another tear from his eye. "She'll have her mother's nose."

"And her father's eyes," she knew that he would take the news of her pregnancy with great joy, but wasn't expecting him to be moved to tears so quickly. She kissed the dampness that surrounded his eyes in the same way that he always did for her. "And his gentleness, too."

Unsurprisingly, Giselle was the first to receive this happy news when she met Marigold at Coffee n' San-tea the following Monday. William was present, too, but had been reinstated as a dishwasher for the weeks leading up to their move, and was busy working behind the scenes when they women had their customary meeting.

"You didn't order a hazelnut macchiato," the always observant Giselle noted as they cozied up in their favorite window-side spot.

"Nope! Chamomile tea for me! But I'm not complaining, I slept very well last night." Marigold started to pick away at a large stack of sugared Christmas cookies. She partial to sweets, but more of the gourmet kind. So even this was out of the ordinary for her. It wouldn't be long before Giselle pieced everything together and she thoroughly enjoyed enticing her predictable companion with puzzles.

"You? Sleeping well? When your husband is as fuckable as William is," Giselle turned to shush the exasperated old woman who was seated two chairs down, "c'mon Grandma, we're all sexual beings by nature. I've seen you sneaking peeks of that little dishwasher's caboose every time he walks past the-"

"-I'm taking a small break from sex. And cutting out caffeine," Marigold stole another sip of her tea and crossed her fingers behind the chair's thick arm, silently wishing that Giselle's next guess would draw less attention. She also wasn't in the best position to address her husband as "fuckable", but Marigold was in such a marvelous mood that she let it slide.

"Herbal tea, less sex… you've obviously been meditating. Even a person with a sinus infection could smell that sandalwood shit you're wearing in the next county," she fiddled with her curls, "you guys had a fight. Mare, you can't hum that crap away. You need to talk. You need to get completely hammered and screw-"

"Oh, and I'm cutting out alcohol, too," she gestured for Giselle to lower her voice, but it didn't stick.

"You're… divorcing and joining a convent? Am I going to have to start following you around humming 'How to you solve a problem like Mar-ee-gold!?' hmmm… you aren't going all Juno on me, are you?"

Marigold gave a faint smile of discretion before folding a cookie in half and eating it whole. "I'm surprised with you," she managed to say between munches, "that was your first guess when we told you that we were getting married… and when we told you that we were relocating."

"I'm going to be an auntie!?" She gasped. "I mean… my mall rat preteen of a niece, Chloe aside…"

"Well, a godmother, anyway."

"A fairy godmother!?" Giselle started to clap her hands frantically. "Where's Billy? BILLY!?" Despite Marigold's attempt to stop her, Giselle raced towards the kitchen, shouting William's "name". Soon after, the breakfast crowd could hear her scream something along the lines of "PREGNANT!?"followed by the loud thump of a soapy frying pan plummeting to the floor. Marigold pursued her, humiliated. When she turned around the corner, she saw that Giselle had locked William in an excruciatingly tight hug. "I'm. So. Happy!" Her arms tightened with every word.

"Is she suffocating you?"

"No, she's uhm… quite alright." William gave Giselle's curly head a tiny pat. "Thank you. We're very happy, too." Once he was free to move around again, he picked up the pan from the floor and started to dry the ground with several dishrags. As ever, Marigold helped him without even being asked.

"I'm going to start knitting this afternoon! Blankets, beanies, itty bitty baby socks! So, tell me," Giselle leaned against the counter that separated the kitchen from the dishwashing station. As she did so, a mountain of cupcake liners spilled over into Louie's workspace. "Have you thought of any names? You should choose something quirky to distract from the little sea monkey's surname… no offence."

Marigold looked to William. There was no way to explain that they hadn't only named their daughter, but knew everything from the exact color of her hair in the sunlight and the way that her voice sounded when she laughed and sang. They would have to stall. For nine whole months, no less!

"Melissa for a girl," William clasped his hands and smiled adorably, "it means honeybee!"

"Oh, and then there's Shiloh and Chance for a boy…" Marigold moved into the kitchen to help Louie with the cupcake liners.

"You're growing a human in there, right? Not a puppy?" Louie inquired with his smooth baritone. He wasn't a comedian by any stretch of the imagination, so his joke was met with more laughter than it deserved from the group.

Tess, being the professional eavesdropper that she was (and with some help from the volume of Giselle's voice) stepped out of her office. To the Tavingtons' surprise, she didn't offer the same sort of boisterous congratulations that she had given them when she received news of their marriage. Instead, they received a summon, leaving Giselle to face Louie's fury alone.

She hardly seemed like Tess. She seemed far more somber. True, her black victory rolls were pristine as ever and her dress of choice, a yellow polka dotted dress, was one of her more cheerful wardrobe pieces. Everything that made Tess… well, Tess, was contradicted by her mood.

"I want to talk to you about my nephew," Tess pulled up two chairs before slothfully descending into her own. "How is he performing as a student these days?"

Marigold was at a loss. "I wish that I could tell you. He's scheduled to attend South in the evenings, but hasn't been present for weeks."

Tess removed the pencil from behind her ear and kneading its pink eraser between her fingers. "Another reason why he is facing expulsion, I suppose… look. I know he isn't your problem, but could you be gentle with him the next time he shows up in class?"

"My wife has always treated her students kindly, Miss Martin." William placed his hand on Marigold's knee." If she has ever been harsh to Tommy it is because he-"

"He just turned fifteen," Tess flipped the pencil around in her hands and continued her nervous tick while her face remained void of any expression, "which means that little crush that he's had on you has lasted for over half of his life. There's no denying that at some point, it turned into- yes, you can come in, too, Giselle. Pull up a chair. We were just discussing…"

"Tommy Martin," Giselle squished between William and Marigold, giving a quick pat of intrusive affection to her best friend's (barely) pregnant belly. "Hey there, little Giselle Junior." Silence. "Everyone in this room has seen Rushmore, right?"

"Three times since October," William groaned. Whenever Giselle came over, she always dropped hints that she wanted to watch her favorite film. Of course, he'd seen Kate and Leopold a whopping eight times since arriving in 2017.

After Tess' lethargic "yes", Giselle proceeded, "You know that awesome scene at the end? Max is obviously still in love with Miss Cross and looks up at her with those big, adoring puppy eyes? They're still able to reconcile and dance with one another even though she's like… ten years older… and ten feet taller than him? Tommy needs that sort of closure from Marigold. I mean, let's be honest Mare, you did snub him at your wedding, repeatedly."

"She has a point," Tess retained her eyeroll just long enough to say.

"He was making weepy dedications every other song," William sprung on the opportunity to defend Marigold, "dancing with him would have made him inconsolable by the end of the evening. The blame is mine. If anyone should speak to Tommy about this, it should be me. Man to man."

Marigold had to restrain herself from stomping on his foot. Although she wasn't fully aware of William's past with Tommy, any sort of a feud with the Martins would surely rekindle the burning pains of his past.

It wasn't until after school let out for the holidays that Tommy finally showed his face. His entire relationship with Marigold consisted of minor pranks and vying for her attention, yes, but he also spent time listening to her; learning her values, her passions, her fears. During her final hour with the schoolhouse, Tommy knew exactly where to find her.

She took her time, merely admiring the craftsmanship of the building. Not so much her own restorations. Her father told her once that there were still nails in the floorboard that Solomon Casey hammered into the foundation with his own hands. Once, when she was very small, he unlocked the door and let her look inside. Through the cobwebs and the dust, they could locate several of the nails. Many of which, she refused to extract from the wood. She was crouched on the floor, admiring a small indention that housed one of the rough specks of silver when a knock sounded at the door. She was expecting William and called for whoever was outside to come in from the inclement Winter storm. In stepped Tommy Martin.

"I have something of yours," the gangly teenage boy stepped in from the white, snowy lawn and slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

"You should sit down and warm up, here." Marigold patted one of the chairs that she'd stacked along the edge of the room, but Tommy didn't move.

"You have to close your eyes and hold out your hands," a ghost of a smile entered his sad eyes. When he saw that this request had made her laugh, the smile became more prominent.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. Miss Casey." His eyes dropped to the floor. "You'll always be Miss Casey to me. I hope that's alright. Close your eyes and hold out your hands and I'll never bother you again."

She approached him and placed her hands on his shoulders. If they were ever going to make amends, now would be the time. "You don't bother me, Tommy."

"I bother everyone. It's my job! Now…"

She could hear the contents of his pocket shifting around. They sounded small and metallic. Probably coinage, but more than likely, they were the makings of some sort of prank. The sentimentality of their final moment as teacher and student, plus her pure confidence in the fact that Tommy wasn't a harmless boy, permitted her to give him what he was after.

As Marigold held out her hands, she shut her eyes tightly in a true childlike fashion, causes the corners of her eyes to crease. She could feel a heavy velvet pouch filled with jagged pieces of lead landing where her hands met. At the same time, something light and airy traveled from her nose to her chin and almost immediately after, she felt Tommy's lips pressing shyly against her own. She allowed him to remain there for a few seconds before backing away.

"You tricked me." Marigold wanted to scowl, to reprimand him somehow. But all that she could do was grin at the young man before her who was blushing from head to toe.

"I trick everybody, Miss Casey… it's my job."

"Are you going to tell me what this is?" As she shook the pouch, the jagged pieces tapped against one another.

"You've gotta open it, Miss Casey!"

She pulled lightly at the string on the edge of the pouch and looked inside. "I remember these…" Carefully, she extracted several tiny, lead soldiers from their hiding place. "These little fellows were MIA for many years."

Tommy managed to laugh, "Yeah, I snatched them from your folks' museum when I was… what? Eight? Can you believe kids used to play with those things before the invention of silly string?"

"It must have been very difficult for them. Poor colonials! Thank you for returning them, Tommy." She gave him the smallest pat on the shoulder.

"You won't tell your husband about… you know? I wouldn't want to wage another war between the Tavington and Martin families. Especially over a woman." His face twisted into a rascally wink.

A second knock echoed through the wooden building. This time, they both knew who it was.

"Come in, Darling!" Marigold shouted, her hand still on Tommy's shoulder.

Tommy threw up his hands as William stomped a final collection of snow from his shoe on the porch and stepped inside. "I didn't touch her, Mr. Tavington! I might have thought about it, but I didn't!"

William's left eyebrow arched, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Martin." He then turned to Marigold. "Is everything in order, then?" He looked on as his wife twisted the key from its ring and removed a labeled envelope from her tote. If she was melancholy, she did a good job at hiding it. He then presented her with an identical envelope. "The bungalow is locked up, too. We should get going if we want to catch our realtor."

Tommy could feel the gravity of this ceremony and left before his heart received the full impact of seeing the well-concealed pain in Marigold's eyes.

"He's a sweet kid," she stated with minimal sarcasm as she passed William the pouch. Fate would have it that he pulled out a British soldier on a chestnut horse and quickly became mesmerized by the piece. "Stole those from a display in my parent's museum when he was eight! William? Are you okay?"

The weight of the lead in his palm seemed to increase and a pain- dull, yet prominent formed in his right arm. "They're little ghosts," he placed the soldier and pouch on a nearby desk and seemed to recover once they were out of his possession.

"Well," Marigold dolefully glanced at her "gift" from Tommy, "if they bother you, then I will gladly leave them behind along with everything else."

Although the lead soldiers remained, scattered across a desk in the Casey Schoolhouse, this would not be their last haunting. In Mid-January, the snow began to thaw and there was a brief spell of warmth across the land. William was working hard to break a young stallion and, despite his better judgement, took the little hellion out for a ride. Not even halfway through, he was thrown. William was unharmed, but infuriated. He must have chased him for a quarter of a mile before the young horse stopped to drink at a stream.

The vicinity surrounding the water was once a farmland; now, overgrown. Yet, everything about the space was familiar to William. The slopes in the land, the lines in the vegetation, the smell and sound of the nearby water. The unity was chilling. In short, he had stumbled upon the piece of land that belonged to the Martins all those years ago. The horse was retrieved without any trouble and seemed to have wound down a great deal after his brief exodus. As William was making to ride away from this place forever, the tip of his boot brushed across a bit of ground that the horse's hooves disturbed. A mounted British soldier, just like the one that he had pulled from the pouch, was laying on the dirt below as if in a grave all his own.

…

In the evenings after class, Giselle would pass through the Waterford Cemetery. From junior high on, she was practically an adopted child of the Caseys and would occasionally leave behind one of her famous tissue paper flowers that Marigold's mother, Saffron loved so well. Her father, Emmett Casey, the talker, required good conversation and that was all. Regardless, if Giselle had time, she would bring small arrangements when her garden was in bloom. But never, not once, did she leave anything behind at Henry Anderson's grave. Even after she told Marigold about their affair, she didn't want to leave behind evidence for fear that it would indicate the frequency of her visits.

She shivered in the cold, causing the metal buttons on her jean jacket to ring; a symphony of tiny copper bells. For anyone else, it would have been a fool's errand, standing there in near-freezing temperatures. But Giselle knew what would happen next. As she focused on the headstone that simply read "Unknown", a warm breezed wrapped around her from behind and a gentle voice whispered in her ear. She could not see Henry Anderson. His visitations were unique that way. He would merely hold her and speak to her for a while, until her conscience was clear once more.

"My Peggy. You are troubled," the gentle ghost's breath moved across her face, "you've come seeking counsel."

"Yes," Giselle whispered, unafraid. "I was thinking about what you told me last week. That you will leave me once I accept his proposal. You are a patient man, John, but Jake can only hold on so much longer."

"I know that you love him," the spirit said, still working to ease her trembling, "and he can fill your heart in ways that I cannot. Why suspend your love for a living man for the sake of a dead man? You and I will have our eternity. Why not follow your friend's example and rejoice in the now?"

"It still seems unfair to me," Giselle pondered after a while, "that William should face an eternity of hellfire when his time here is through. They know it, too! And they're still happy?"

"You know as well as I that William Tavington will never successfully rid himself of his past. Every time he sees his daughter, in the flesh, and holds her… he will see the faces of the many children that he killed. There is something else at work, my dear. It will allow Marigold to save him one last time. It will also bring joy and purpose into your life- and Jake's life, too. Look to your right, to the space in front of the Casey's plot. Tell me what you see."

The ground was still coated with ice and yet, a round patch of grass formed like a spotlight around the unfolding scene. A young girl, clothed in perfectly kept dressage attire crossed, not to where the Caseys were buried, but to the headstone beside them. The space that Marigold had reserved for William.

The girl removed her backpack, pulled out a blanket and folded it neatly on the ground before sitting straight-backed on top of it. A book came next. Giselle strained her eyes trying to get a better look at the title but was distracted by another approaching figure- herself. She took her time at each grave, leaving behind a flower for Saffron, a quick joke for Emmett, and before she reached the brown-haired girl who was lost in her book at her father's headstone, she retrieved a single flower from her tote and laid it across the stony surface of the third grave. The flower was a marigold.

 **Author's Note: Yup. Just so there's no confusion, there is one more chapter! I will try to post it before the end of the week. I will also be going in and revising the story at some point (I might even add some chapters later on!), but since tomorrow begins my second-to-last semester as an undergrad (yowza), my focus needs to shift a bit. As always, thank you for sticking with this little labor of love and for providing me with feedback. You are all absolutely lovely! X**


	24. A Curious Paradox

_There is a curious paradox that no one can explain._

 _Who understands the secret of the reaping of the grain?_

 _Who understands why Spring is born out of Winter's laboring pain?_

 _Or why we all must die a bit before we grow again..._

-El Gallo ( _The Fantasticks_ )

Theirs was a simple life. Brief, but lovely like that rainless springtime from your childhood I'm sure you can still recall. A small two-story farm house that sat dormant on the Appleby property for many years became their home. It was neither Marigold's humble bungalow nor William's lavish estate in Liverpool, but something of their own making and they couldn't love it more. Even little Moxie acclimated beautifully to farm life. Winter transitioned into Spring, Spring to Summer and everyday passed by in bliss. Days of endless sunlight and laughter seemed to fill the homey space. But there was sadness, too. Great sadness towards the end.

Marigold was bedridden for the last two months of her pregnancy and as her tiny form grew sickly and frail, the voices that plagued William's conscience multiplied. It was exactly as Annabelle had predicted. He would hide his guilt away in the earlier months until its weight became too heavy to bear and then confide in Marigold to steal away his pain. During their moments of intimacy in the earlier months of her pregnancy, he would pluck away at Marigold's heartbeats like the petals of a flower. Eventually, even their seemingly harmless kisses and embraces would come to drain her tenacity and joy.

On a morning in late August, weeks before their daughter's due date, William sensed a new strength in his wife. Marigold arose with a playful smile just as she used to and made her way into his arms. She told him of her dream from the night before and even picked up where she left off on her plans for Mabel's nursery. Before she fell ill, Marigold would work on an inspiration scrapbook for their daughter. William left the room to retrieve the book along with her bumblebee mug that he filled each morning to the brim with warm milk and honey. When he returned, he found Marigold hunched over the edge of their bed. This was what her sudden zing of strength had prepared her for. It only took one look at her to know that she was going into premature labor.

"Darling," he cried, guiding her to lay back against their doubled-up pillows. "I will call for Mrs. Appleby and the hospital, too!" William kept a firm grasp on Marigold's hand as he made the calls and before long, Mrs. Appleby could be heard entering through the noisy screen door and running up the stairs without a second to lose.

"We're looking at a breached birth," the lanky old woman with a broken tooth informed them as she readied Marigold for delivery. "There's no stopping it, too. Mare, you're going to have to do this without medication, okay?"

Over and over, Marigold ensured them that she would be strong for their daughter. The pain that followed was sudden and intense. Unapologetically, it grew from sharp and throbbing to a widespread sensation that made Marigold feel as though every bone in her body was fracturing at the same time. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. Despite the dominating effect of this incredible pain, she didn't matter to herself. The only thing that she cared about was bringing their daughter into the world.

William was astonished by his wife's silence during her clearly agonizing delivery. He was asked to talk to her and keep her calm, but her deep, consistent breaths were far better at this than he. His eyes didn't leave her face once. She didn't want to react, she believed that reacting would make her selfish. Each time she was asked to push, her deep, meditative inhales and exhales were traded out for extremely brief expressions of anguish.

"You're doing beautifully," he would say when he saw disturbances in her breaths.

Marigold's handling of the final push was extraordinary. She gave every ounce of herself to it and when their daughter's first cry filled the room, she didn't recline, she didn't relax. Instead, she fought against the shock that her body was still enduring and moved to take a better look, to make sure that their little girl was okay.

William moved her head back to the pillow. As they listened to the news that she was healthy and perfect, they exchanged smiles. He moved his hand across her forehead, doting upon the beautiful grin that she wore. The smile remained on Marigold's face, but her eyes dropped out of their line of contact, leaving William alone in the room. He called her name, once as a question and the second time, as a plea. Her expression of joy and relief, a quiet celebration of the precious life that entered into the room seemed to wither away before his eyes.

He was with her when she awoke, but in a different form. She had seen him once before in his uniform, the day that she witnessed the burning of the church in Pembroke. It was difficult to rid that vision from her mind, but the love and concern in his eyes were identical to what she had just witnessed.

"Promise me something, Annabelle," she heard the soothing voice of her William say, "I am to leave for battle at daybreak. Promise me that when I return, I will find you waiting."

Marigold knew that this was the moment Annabelle had preserved in time for her. She waited for an answer; for some indication of what she was supposed to say or do in response. A shade of darkness moved across William's features like a passing cloud. Even his eyes, pale and fierce were concealed. She could feel her heart slowing in her chest. Even now at 28 years of age, she hardly felt mature enough to articulate, let alone accept her own mortality.

Annabelle had persevered just long enough for William to return. Marigold's experience would be different. Everything from within indicated that these were her final moments of life. Speaking of her impending doom terrified her but she had no other choice than to be quick and effective with the small amount of time that she had been given.

"William. The world around me is fading to blackness. Even you, the brightest star in my sky, cannot pierce the dark that surrounds me. I will not make a promise that I cannot keep. It is you who must make a vow instead." She could barely feel William's touch as his hand traveled across her face. "Wait for your order today. And when the time comes to surrender, do so. Promise me that you will use your strength to save lives today, rather than end them. You have done wicked deeds, but you are not a wicked man. Act instead on the gentleness that you have in your heart. The gentleness and kindness that I so adore…" The image before her turned to black, she couldn't see him, but could feel that she was still there for at least an instant longer. "I will meet you in my dreams." Those were the final words of Annabelle Casey and the dying wish of Marigold Tavington.

William didn't ask to see his daughter right away. Mrs. Appleby was only beginning to tend to the tiny, premature baby when she saw that blood was gushing out of Marigold, across the bed and onto the floor. "She's hemorrhaging," the short, gray-haired woman moved William aside just long to be affected by the tiny smile that was relaxing into nothingness on Marigold's wordless mouth. Her eyes dropped to the floor where her life continued to spill out all around them. "William," she shook his shoulder. "There's nothing you or I could have done. Nobody could have saved her."

William would not accept this, how could he? The outpour of blood made from his wife's paling body didn't make any difference at all. He cradled her in his arms, the same way that Mrs. Appleby was holding tiny Mabel. "Come back to me." He whispered, searching her face, silent and blank, for some trace of life. "Come back to me! We always come back, you and I! Remember? You said it yourself- we will always find one another again." It was no use. He shaded his face with his hand, releasing a barely audible sob. His silent tears quickly turned to gentle cries of despair that were delivered into her chest.

When her lack of heartbeat became too much, he returned to her face. Marigold's eyes, wide and green were as still as tidepools on a breezeless day. Before submitting them to eternal sleep, he took one final, indulgent glance into their still, deep waters. Like her lips that would never speak another word or sing another note, or her tiny nose that would never crease in laughter; her eyes would never again gaze upon him adoringly or marvel at the fleeting beauty of the world that so many eyes overlook. The warmth that still clung to her eyelids and prickle of their lashes gave him a fleeting sensation of comfort as he brushed his hand across them, kissing each lid softly once they were closed.

He didn't let go of her, not once. When the noise of sirens and tires rolling across the dirt road outside beckoned, he drew the limp body of his young wife closer and began his slow climb down the stairs. Her upturned face caught the overhanging light. Her ivory arms and pale strands of hair draped around her like the snow-covered branches of a willow tree, along with base of her soft, yellow nightgown, which was doused entirely with blood. A handful of medics were fast at work, checking Mabel's vitals and placing her in an incubator for the journey to the hospital. Several glanced up at William.

"Your daughter is going to be just fine, Mr. Tavington. She is one of the strongest premature babies I've ever seen," a dark-haired technician gave him as reassuring of a smile as she could, "Mrs. Appleby was just telling us about how hard your wife fought to deliver her safely."

A thick coating of tears moved into William's eyes. "She smiled at me. After our little girl was born." He looked around the room at the faces surrounding him, some of them were confused, but they were all sympathetic. "My Marigold… she died." William's heart plummeted in his chest like a heavy stone as the two saddest words he had ever spoken left his lips. His face moved into her mess of pale hair wherein he wept until he was strong enough to proceed. "She died smiling. How like an angel. She was like an angel in every way."

William's grief would only grow and quickly, too. He was asked to lay Marigold across a long, metal stretcher as they examined her and made sense of the details of her sudden passing. When this recount was over, the team attempted to enclose her in a noisy, unsightly body bag. The very sight of this ritual destroyed William's already tattered psyche. "Please," he demanded, "you must have something softer, something fairer to bear my sweet angel away in." His eyes moved across the room to a large pale-yellow throw that Marigold owned long before she and William ever met. Everyone in the room watched as he folded the fabric around her with love and care. When they were satisfied, he assisted them in carrying her from their farmhouse and into the early morning air. Nobody understood why he could not be severed from her. Not even to see Mabel. And the effort he made to help them understand was minimal. It wasn't until Giselle arrived at the morgue that William stated his case.

"They asked if I wanted a lock of her hair," his eyes were raw from weeping as he dutifully knelt with Marigold's cold hand to his cheek, his other hand was threaded throughout her tresses, pale as the moon beneath that sterile light. "What they don't realize is that she came back to me last time. Why should this time be any different? Why should I settle for anything less than leaving this terrible place with her by my side? Instead of some meaningless memento?"

As her balance gave out, Giselle turned. There was nothing that she could have done to prepare herself for seeing the lifeless body of her dearest friend in all the world. She stumbled towards the door, searching for her breath. After collecting herself, she stepped back into the heartbreaking scene that she had been cast in.

"The blush on her cheek is still there," William said, hopefully. "And her lips… although they are like two frosted rosebuds-"

"We lost her, William." Giselle's voice broke, but her strength managed to prevail. "Look at me. She no longer needs you. Because she is gone. But your daughter is here and she is all alone, without a mother. You have no right to deprive her of a father, too. She is the one who needs you now."

Fury found its way to William's face and somehow, it became infused with sorrow. He placed Marigold's hand at her side on the cool, silver table all the while, heavy tears filled his eyes. Pain contorted his face before he dove into her chest once more. His cries were so raw, so deep and unlike any noise that he had ever produced or Giselle had ever heard. They were the sounds of pure anguish. The metal beneath Marigold creaked and trembled as William became possessed by a noisy tantrum of despair.

"It should have been me instead!" William pleaded, grasping tighter and tighter to her shoulders and hair. "Not her! Anyone but her!" His fist beat down on the table, but Giselle didn't restrain him. Instead, she laid her hand upon his back and his sobs turned skyward once more. "How can it be that something so vibrant and fair as she… should die?"

As he pressed his forehead to Marigold's, he remembered how she used to do this to calm him and the volume of his cries decreased. Giselle grazed his shoulder with her hand. "You told me once that if my heart were to stop beating, Marigold would be reduced to a shell of what she once was. That is what I am now. I am no longer a man. I am nothing but an empty shell."

Losing Marigold changed William in many ways. He returned to the farmhouse only once and while Mrs. Appleby was kind enough to cleanse the space and discard of their blood soaked-blankets and mattress, being there destroyed him. Everything that belonged to Marigold had been placed in boxes ahead of William's visit. Many of the items would be donated, the others would be put in storage for Mabel. All that remained was her wardrobe. He sifted through her collection of dresses. Each one invoked a memory. He saw the brown, vintage floral that she was wearing the day that he arrived in modern Waterford, the emerald green dress that she had on when she kissed him in the park, even her cap-sleeved wedding dress could be seen in the bunch. None of them seemed fit for the task at hand.

When Marigold and her brothers were old enough to discuss funeral arrangements with their parents, she was the least detailed with her wishes. Strictly because such a conversation made her uncomfortable. The notes that Jack and Jake provided William were sparse, but the three of them decided to hold her service in the tiny white chapel at the heart of Waterford Cemetery. Guests were given the option to spend a few moments alone with Marigold before the casket was closed and adorned with a variety of colorful wildflowers. Most visits were brief and William witnessed every one of them from a secret place beside the doorway. It was difficult to see how quickly her brothers passed through and how pained simply viewing their once lively sister made them.

To his surprise, Tommy Martin remained with Marigold the longest. The usually hyperactive young man remained still and composed, merely beholding the soft-spoken beauty that his dear friend still possessed, even in death. Before he was asked to leave for the sake of time and nothing more, he removed a petite violet from the grouping of wildflowers that Marigold clasped in her hands and retrieved a hardcover book from the sack that he'd slung over the shoulder of his dark suit.

"I saw you doing this at the café, once," Tommy opened the book, placed the flower between its centermost pages and shut it tightly, "now it will last forever." He held the book against his chest. "Like all of the other wonderful things that you leave behind. Your kindness, your humor, your beautiful face... have all been imprinted on my heart like this flower. I will never forget you, Marigold."

William would be the last to bid farewell before the chapel was opened to the public. But not until after Giselle passed through a second time to stay just while little bit longer at her best friend's side.

"I know you're there, William," her voice was the softest that he had ever heard it. "Funny how you and I still can't leave her." As he moved closer, Giselle looked away. "She is breaking my heart," she said, simply.

He took a deep breath and allowed himself to look upon his wife one last time. She was clothed in a plain blue gown that Giselle had sewn with a bright embroidered floral design on the sleeves and on the edges that surrounded Marigold's bare ankles and feet. As he had requested, a collection of forget me nots and white jasmine, the symbol of everlasting love, were woven throughout her long corn silk-colored hair. Her childlike features took on the appearance of porcelain, not a single one of the bruised shadows of death had fallen upon her eyelids.

"I should leave you two alone," as Giselle started to leave, William reached for her hand.

"You lost her, too." His eyes remained on Marigold. "I understand if you wish to stay. See, I still have yet to let go of her, myself."

"I gave her to you on the day that you married her. Of the two of us, you should be the last to let go," as she drew William in, his strength failed in her arms. She held him for several minutes as he cried into her shoulder. "You will be with her someday. Should you leave this world before I do, I will do everything for your daughter that we have discussed. If you're lost over what to tell Marigold, tell her about Mabel." And it was so.

"I dreamt of you last night," William stoked her brow when they were finally alone, "and I know what you did for me. You saved our name not only for us, but for our daughter." His fingertips touched the tip of her nose and he grinned only slightly through his tears. "The doctors say that she is healthy and strong and will be able to come home soon. I will see to it that she has everything she needs. I promise. Open fields to ride in filled with sunshine to give her those precious freckles on her nose, thick books filled with adventure stories as well as the tools to make her knowledgeable and aware of the world around her. She will be a Waterford girl. Friendly and helpful… if not a bit peculiar. She will never forget who her mother was. Neither will I, nor anyone else in the city that you loved so well. Rest peacefully, my one and only love. Find comfort in knowing that you will not lie alone forever. Before long, I will come and lie beside you. Until that time, I will meet you in my dreams. Tonight and every night." His voice lowered to a whisper as he kissed her lips, soft and cold as icy petals. "Goodnight, my beautiful one."

Despite the shadow that moved across her as William and William alone closed her off to the light of day, her mortal form remained just as radiant as ever. His hand glided across the glistening coffin's surface. Standing killed him. He longed to weep a while longer, to lay his face across the smooth wood that would soon be buried in the cold, damp earth. Instead, he reached for the small bag that held a collection of wildflowers from the farm and scattered them across it. This way, when he and her dearest friends carried Marigold to her resting place at the end of the service, she would leave a trail of flowers behind her on the ground.

 **Author's Note: I lied. There will be one more chapter after this one.**


	25. Some Things are Meant to Be

The unsurpassable strength of Mabel Tavington came, not from her gallant father or her virtuous mother, but from the six-month period at the beginning of her life that she spent all alone. William, of course, provided for his daughter. He kept her fed, clean and safe from harm; all the things that a father should do. But there was a darkness within him that caused him to resent the baby girl in his arms. He was present, but not present. He loved her, but he didn't and intuitive little Mabel was aware of his animosity. She could feel his neglect, despite his attempts to hide it from the rest of the world and himself.

During the day, he would tend to Mabel's needs as best he could. At night, he would search his dreams for Marigold, but to no avail. William hadn't dreamt of her since several days after her death, when she showed him the moment in his past that she had given her life to alter.

The burning of her favorite brand of incense was customary, until it gave Mabel a terrible cough and had to be discarded. The smell of floral soaps and oils, the bright shades of yellow that she favored in her décor, the scratch of the needle against her favorite records, the touch of dryer-fresh towels against his skin and the taste of wildflower honey and hazelnut- these were the things that William depended on. Sensory memory brought her back to him, but never in full form.

He surrendered countless tears to the night and would often escape into the quiet wardrobe where the sweet lavender-rose fragrance that lived on his wife's hair and skin still lingered.

"Why did you leave me here alone?" He would ask the scalloped hems and laces of her dresses as they caught his tears. "We were supposed to be a family," he'd whisper each time her wedding dress appeared in his periphery. In the early morning, when the sun was still as soft as the furthest ring of light from the flame on a burning candle's wick, he would beg her to haunt him. If only for a moment, in the hour that they had once reserved for making sweet love.

He could still recall the perfect crescendos and decrescendos of her rhythm, the love that she put into every kiss and touch that she gifted his lips and his naked, vulnerable form. Even now, he could see the glistening droplets of sweat that hung from her flesh like a million priceless jewels. Men have needs, but William never once considered laying with another woman. He sacrificed bodily pleasure and allowed remembrance to be enough. The only lustful task that he undertook was several innocent attempts to sketch Marigold's anatomy from memory. Most of his drawings were from moments that he recalled when she was spread across the bed in sleep with her small, pale breasts aglow in the moonlight. But the drawings, the moon and even the rising sun were cold. It was her warmth that he missed the most.

He kept other drawings, too, that were less intimate. Although William knew that he would never forget her, the sketches ensured him that Marigold's face wouldn't fade over time. Sketches of her in motion, in laughter and in song were drawn in an attempt to purge his mind of the last time that he'd seen her, whiter than the whitest dove; the face of an angel, destined to come to dust in the darkness of a lonely grave.

All other reminders, he found in Mabel as her shapeless newborn features grew more decisive and refined. She was a beautiful little baby and her beauty would only grow along with her fearlessness and compassion. There were few factors that differentiated Mabel's face from her mother's; even Jake, when he was finally strong enough to see his niece, made it known that she looked exactly as his little sister did when she was that age. Except for those eyes. They were what made her a Tavington.

Had they been green as a meadow like the eyes of his late wife, it is possible that Mabel wouldn't have been able to speak to her father the way that she did that day. She was only six months old at the time and typically communicated through rises and falls in the volume of her incoherent sounds. But as William stood in the cold of a February evening to mourn the loss of young Marigold, and to scorn the early spring grasses that were beginning to appear on the soil that he had buried her in, something magical happened.

In one glance, he saw the settling dirt and the tiny child whose birth had sent his beloved to her grave. Mabel's eyes were bluer than blue against the somber backdrop, like a photograph of Neptune glowing in the darkness of space. They watched one another as he wept. When she was sure that he could see her, Mabel lifted her hand towards his face. She continued to stretch, to invite her father's touch until he obliged. William had never glimpsed anything quite so stunning as the concern- nay, empathy in the infant's expression.

Although her eyes and his were one and the same, he found in them all the innocence and comfort that Marigold had offered him, even in her final moment of life. But also, and perhaps more importantly, William saw how similar her eyes were to his own- before the war robbed them of their tenderness and hope. That is, of course until they happened upon angelic Annabelle as she caught fireflies in her apple tree. But they seemed to remain cold, even in love. Mabel's eyes were pained, more pained than any child's should be, but they would never be cold or cruel, regardless of the bitter world that she was born into. He lowered his hand for his daughter to hold- not suck, not bite, but hold. His tears of sadness became something else entirely. The little girl whose life he had cursed when she was out of sight, was consoling him. For the first time in what seemed like forever, love entered and warmed the heart of William Tavington.

Mabel developed a special talent for sensing her father's sadness and as she grew to learn the workings of the world, she began to understand what they had lost- his wife, her mother. William's relationship with the farmhouse was similar, he loathed it for the loss that he had suffered within its walls, but celebrated it for the life that began there. Items that reminded him of Marigold gradually moved out of their boxes and into their home. On Mabel's sixth birthday, he gifted her with a trinket of her mother's that he had found while storing away her engagement ring and wedding band. He could only remember one instance that Marigold had worn the necklace; while selling honey products with Freddie at the county fair. But it was a start.

"It's a bumblebee!" Mabel exclaimed, removing the necklace from William's rough hand. "Just like me!"

When she was done admiring the faceless silver bee, she asked her father to aid her in putting it on. "Now, this belonged to your mother, Bumblebee. So, I want you to take good care of it. That includes tucking it into your collar when you ride Buttercup, is that clear?" He pushed her golden-brown ponytail over her shoulder and shut the clasp.

"Yes, Fa." She turned, grinning from ear to ear. "Do I look like Ma now?" This was a common question with Mabel. The pictures that she'd seen of her mother were all by way of Giselle. Those images told her that Marigold was beautiful and fair. But the heavy cluster of freckles across Mabel's nose, the darkness in her skin from the hours she spent in the elements and the brown hue that tainted her blondeness made her feel separate from Marigold. She longed to know more, how they were alike. So, she hunted tirelessly for answers, but also treaded softly with her father. Although she was young, she honored his privacy and didn't look into his sketchbooks, the wardrobe or the boxes in the basement. Not once.

"Exactly," he tapped the tip of her nose. "You look exactly like Ma."

Mabel closed her hand around the tiny bee, before skipping away to the stables, "Then I will keep it forever!"

William's relationship with Waterford was less formidable. Similar to the grasses that were beginning to grow above Marigold, life moved on and covered her footprints, to his despair. Spending time in the downtown district and visiting the places that they used to go was a necessary evil. In the long run, it kept the memory of his wife alive. Giselle and Jake married. They kept in touch with William for Mabel's sake. Seeing the bereaved husband of her best friend unearthed many feelings in Giselle and their greetings were friendly, but brief and to-the-point.

William had sparked controversy with the couple when he walked out on Giselle's emotional solo performance of "Some Things are Meant to Be" from Little Women at the closing of Marigold's memorial service. He didn't tell her at the time and would never be able to articulate it entirely, but the lyrics about losing a sister and knowledge of the womens' kinship combined with the fact that he was to stand adjacent to Giselle as they carried his wife's casket from the building, had caused him to weep with as much ferocity as he had when Giselle stood beside him in the morgue. A soldier, former or not, mustn't be seen in public in such a broken state. It was for that reason that he tactlessly excused himself from the service and waited outside until he was needed.

Marigold's students graduated and entered the workforce without sparing their well-meaning detention teacher a second thought. Save for one. There was a small memorial that Tommy Martin had assembled beside the bulletin board at Coffee n' San-tea. It contained several of her poems, "Ode to an Almond Croissant" was favorited by locals and out-of-towners alike. The selection was silly and sweet and 100% Marigold. It even included a picture that Tommy had taken of her on the chairs outside, balancing a macchiato on her head while wearing a pair of white polka dotted cat eye sunglasses.

Despite the passage of those six long years, Tommy still couldn't seem to let Marigold go. At twenty-one, he bought the schoolhouse with his college savings along with his profits from bussing tables at the café following his high school graduation. His ambitions for the building weren't quite as vivid as Marigold's had been, but he had some ideas in mind for the space, nevertheless. It took a couple of days for him to find the strength to look inside once the keys were in his possession.

One evening, around the time that William gave Mabel her bumblebee, Tommy finally opened the door to the schoolhouse. Cobwebs were hung across the ceiling like tattered curtains in an abandoned theatre. The desks that Marigold had once polished until they sparkled were layered with dust. He recalled the last time that he was there and was immediately haunted by the feeling of her warm, soft lips against his own. It didn't take long for Tommy to find the little pouch of soldiers that Marigold had abandoned and the sweetness of this moment was immediately tarnished. When great love is rejected, it can often compel us to act irrationally and that is exactly what Tommy did. And the consequences of his action would change many lives and set fate in motion once more...

William and Mabel were in town that night. Once she entered grade school, her father freed Mabel from the confines of homeschooling. This meant frequent visits to Waterford Elementary were in order. On this particular evening, Mabel was performing in a series of skits that she and her classmates had written. Ever the equestrian, she tailor-made her roles to coexist with the formal dressage gear that she only ever took off to wash. The skit about a dressage rider who doubled as an astronaut was especially entertaining.

"You're my horsey now!" She imposed a piggyback ride on their way through the parking lot. "Do you think the flowers are alright, Fa?"

"Let's check on them. Would you like to walk to go see Ma or drive? It's such a lovely evening, I'm in favor of walking…"

"Only if you're my horsey the whole way there!"

William fought the urge to grumble. Despite her small frame, his daughter was growing like a weed and gaining weight as her muscles grew from working on the farm. But he also knew that after several blocks, the spirited little girl would feel obligated strike out on her own. "Very well, M'lady! Just don't mistake my hair for reins this time…"

She ended up forgetting this request shortly after they passed the schoolhouse and with a small moan that sounded along the lines of, "I need a haircut," William retired from "being her horsey" and asked her to walk the rest of the way. Like Marigold, Mabel was easily distracted and the appearance of fireflies in the trees surrounding the cemetery stole her interest away. Her father called her back when she disappeared behind the trees in front of the gate.

"Fa!" She leaped out in front of him, "They're everywhere! May I have the jar now, please?"

William pulled the bouquet of wildflowers from the mason jar that he had retrieved from the Subaru in the school parking lot. Droplets of water spilled from their stems and onto the sidewalk as he handed their vessel to Mabel. "Yes, you may, Bumblebee. But you must find a plant that looks thirsty and give its roots the remaining water."

As Mabel seized the jar, a content smile revealed the endearing notch between her front teeth. "Are you forgetting something, Fa?"

"Show me the plant that you watered and if the soil is damp in the right place, you will earn the lid."

With that, Mabel began her quest through the maze of headstones and tombs. William kept a close watch on her, even after arriving at Marigold's humble grave.

"I'm teaching her about watering plants. And about water conservation, like I know you would have done," William told the stone that bore his Marigold's name. "She's come a long way from ripping plants from the earth, roots and all and bringing them to you, remember?" He placed the wildflowers on the ground and knelt. "And let us not forget the time she brought you a sunflower on a stock that was half her height!" His voice was joyful at first, but quickly weakened. "Oh, how lovely it would have been to build memories with you instead of with this cold block of stone." After a pause, he extracted a piece of semi-cheerful news to share. "The Applebys left us everything. The money that Earl left for Freddy is going towards the bee farm. It's doubled since the last time you saw it!" When William was sure that Mabel was otherwise engaged, he allowed the tears that had been brewing like a storm behind his eyes to tumble onto the grass that continued to grow, unapologetically, over her. "Oh, my Marigold! My beautiful little flower. Why ever did you have to wither away?" He stifled a sob as best he could. "I miss you so."

"Fa! What are these flowers called?" Little Mabel wailed from across the lawn. William hardly had to look, she did this all the time. Every time the curbside plant was in bloom, in fact.

"Marigolds," William responded tucking his long hair behind his ear, "they're called marigolds." He smiled, despite his sadness, and watched Mabel pour the remnants of water from the jar at the base of the marigold plant. "She asks about you all the time. Sometimes it's hard to hear. But I accept it because it makes me feel like you are here with us." His voice failed him yet again. "You are, aren't you? Sometimes, I feel you close by. But those feelings are fleeting. Unlike you. Yours was a loyal and constant presence. Just like our little girl. She follows me so closely, somedays I feel as though my shadow grows jealous! She loves me more than I deserve, Marigold…"

"They're called marigolds, just like Ma!" Mabel dashed towards her father and snatched the silver lid from his outstretched hand. "That's why they're my favorite flowers!" She spun around several times and started to pursue a fleet of fireflies as they moved past her on the breeze. "I also like buttercups, because Buttercup is my horse! Have you told Ma about Buttercup!?"

"Repeatedly," William stood upright. He saw that Mabel was having trouble reaching the fireflies that had flown above her head for fear of being caught. He chased her around for several seconds before hoisting her up on his back, straight into the fireflies' safe haven. "Did you catch any, Bumblebee?"

"Yes!" Mabel passed the jar to her father. "Seven!"

"Splendid," William whispered, repeating Annabelle's words exactly as he sealed them in. "Seven fireflies... let's go show Ma." He battled his tears yet again as he watched Mabel position the jar of fireflies against the headstone, illuminating its text:

 _Marigold Victoria Tavington_

 _June 20_ _th_ _, 1990- August 1_ _st_ _, 2018_

 _Beloved Wife and Mother. Devoted Sister._

 _Joyful Always._

"Now remember, we'll have to let them go before we leave. Ma lives in a very special place, you see. She has all the fireflies that she needs to keep her company at night."

They stayed there for a while, updating Marigold about their recent possession of the farm, Mabel's birthday and the ribbons that she and Buttercup had won in a recent dressage show. When it was time to leave, Mabel handed William the jar and he recited, from memory, the poem that Annabelle had composed for him in the schoolyard:

 _Come, listen to my story_

 _Of how seven tiny stars_

 _Abandoned heaven's glory_

 _To live inside a jar._

 _Which to them was a palace_

 _Made entirely of glass._

 _Free from a world of malice,_

 _Until it came to pass_

 _That the ceiling 'bove the seven_

 _Made way for their ascent,_

 _To drift back up to heaven_

 _So… homeward the stars went._

As the seven fireflies went their separate ways above them, a new visitor arrived on the summer breeze. William was the first to see it and told his daughter to remain quiet and still as the tiny, iridescent hummingbird landed on her shoulder. She was lighter than a penny, lighter than a ladybug. Mabel didn't startle, instead, she turned calmly and greeted their sprite-like guest. Before long, the hummingbird was airborne again, but she lingered. She bounced from William to Mabel, almost conversationally. Then, she drifted off to the right a ways and returned.

"I think she's trying to tell us something…" Mabel pondered, rising to her feet. "I think she wants us to follow her…" The hummingbird's flight pattern, predictable as a yo-yo on a string, continued until they took heed. As they continued down the street, waves of smoke began to fill the air. When the burning schoolhouse came into sight after a few blocks, their guide disappeared into the gray sky, like a ghost might.

"My son!" The distraught voice of Benny Martin pulled William in like a magnet. "My son is still in there!"

"Tommy," William covered his mouth as Benny nodded. He located a window that had yet to be consumed by flames and knew what he had to do. "Watch my daughter for me. Watch her close! She likes to wander."

Mabel could be heard behind him, crying for her father to return, but he didn't look back.

Tommy had collapsed on the dusty floor. His hand clung to the pouch that he had returned to Marigold- that she had left behind in the schoolhouse for her husband's sake. William pulled the unconscious young man up and started for the window that he had busted open, but a moan, terrible and low sounded from above and the burning pieces of building started to fall all around them. He covered Tommy with his body, taking every blow in his stead.

The thick pieces of wood struck William with force. They snapped his strong back like a twig as they crashed into him with as much violence and remorselessness as the opposing frontline in battle. He fought for his breath, but the smoke and the shock of his newly born paralysis stole the air away before it reached his lungs. Flames swarmed in like vultures, to scorch their flesh and finish them off, but he didn't stop protecting Tommy once. Even after the fire washed over him like a wave, dissolving most of his clothes and obliterating every inch of his naked flesh; he didn't cease to protect the boy who had started the fire while grieving for the woman they both had loved and lost.

"It will end in fire," William silently recollected. Everything blackened as the fire claimed his eyes, blueness and all, "just as the reflection of Thomas Martin had foretold in the glass…"

Had the fire crew not arrived in time, the weight and temperature of the smoldering debris would have killed them both.

Tommy was tended to first. This might have seemed cruel, but one look at his mangled body informed them that William was gone. Seeing his unconscious son being tossed onto a stretcher caused Benny's strength to lessen just enough for Mabel to break free. She raced to where her father had been cast aside in the grass.

His handsome face was unrecognizable from the burns, but she was unafraid. "Fa!" she cried. "Why won't anybody help him, too?!"

His eyes were vacant reflectors of the clouds in the evening sky. But only for a moment longer. As Mabel placed her hand over his heart, to search for a beat, William drew in a heavy breath of air. The bright blue of his eyes had become pale and opaque. Blindly, they sought his rescuer. "Mabel?" Instead of responding, she cried for help again and again until William was given the attention that he required in order to survive.

William Tavington would never be the same again after that evening. Crippled and blind, he was celebrated by Waterford for saving the life of Tommy Martin, but also isolated. For three long years, he held on for Mabel to make up for the time that he hadn't been there for her. For three long years, he suffered in silence. Not once did Mabel cower at his burns or resent him in any way. She continued to love her father as though nothing had ever changed. Giselle intervened during William's final year. She and Jake tried to ease Mabel back into the life that an ordinary nine-year-old should lead. When she returned from school, however, dressage was secondary to spending time with her beloved father.

She was in Waterford on the day that he died. As was Jake and Giselle. Mabel's last morning with her father was nothing out of the ordinary at all. She brought him tea and helped him drink while discussing her plans for the day. Then, she left to catch the bus just like she always did. He didn't expect that this was the end, either. Had he any idea, he would have spoken up. But as William sat, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun, a shadow moved across the blank screen of light that his eyes were limited to. He was no longer alone in the room. The gentle billowing of the sheer curtains filled his ears, followed by a wave of fragrance that he would recognize anywhere and lastly, he felt a hand on the back of his head. A hand that he wouldn't have felt had he not been on the precipice of death.

"You're tired and weary, my love," Marigold said, gently, "let me help you find rest." As she lowered him onto the bed, William reached, not stopping until his hand found the warm curvature of her cheek.

"I am no longer the man that you fell in love with. I am ugly now. Wretched… and unworthy of the love of an angel." He could hear Marigold's laughter and his face tried to smile, but the dead nerves and tight skin that the fire had left him with couldn't allow such an expression.

"I see that vanity is still an issue with you," she stroked the remnants of his dark hair. "Would it discourage you to hear that I have never seen you look so beautiful as you do now?"

"You sound like Mabel. She calls me handsome every day. At first, I thought it was a cruel joke. But like her mother, she is incapable of cruelty." His hand moved across Marigold's face, along her jaw and across her lips. "I must leave her?"

"Yes. You must."

An expression of sadness, subtle as a whisper, found its way to William's milky eyes and the rough terrain of his inanimate face. "But I love her."

As she watched the tips of his eyelashes grow damp and heard his voice crack, Marigold was instantly pained. "I've watched you both from afar. You and I will be able to do the same for her."

"You left my dreams for a while. For years, I struggled to understand why. It wasn't until recently that I realized… you were making me stronger for her. By leaving me to carry on alone-"

"You weren't alone. Do you remember the hummingbird at my grave? That was the last part, William. Your name has not only been cleared, now it is celebrated. When the time finally comes for Mabel to learn who you were, she will learn of the William Tavington who surrendered at Cowpens and assisted in the recovery of many soldiers. American and British alike. Not because Annabelle told him to, but because she reminded him of his goodness at its most pivotal moment. She will learn that the same William Tavington traveled across the centuries to save the reincarnate of a young boy who he shot in the back like a coward. She will learn…"

"That I, a man from another time, was her father."

"Yes. And it is up to you and I to guide her to that knowledge. Through books that spark her interest in the library, through conversations that she initiates with her godparents… and through the dreams that you and I will send her when we feel that she is strong enough to have them. She will dream of you, William. When she is ready. But for now…" the sound of his lungs rattling as he struggled to draw breath pained Marigold even more, "if you are ready, I can take your pain away. You and I will be together once more. To see, to hold… to watch over our daughter in the unseen world. With your permission..."

He began to cry again. Softly, each sob fought its way past his lips. "Take me with you. Let me see your face again."

As Marigold touched his tears, her fingers felt to William like a warm breeze traveling across his skin. For the past nine years, they had longed for this. "My beautiful William." She caressed the gashes and burns that had stolen away his sweet visage like a thief in the night. "May I kiss you?"

"Please," he closed his eyes.

Marigold hesitated, the rise and fall in his chest was mesmerizing, beautiful. She pressed her hand to his chest and felt beneath it the heart that used to soothe her into sleep, that she had sacrificed her life for, and that she had left utterly broken with her own untimely end. There would be no revoking it, this tender kiss of death. His breaths had grown to tiny gasps of pain and Marigold knew that it would not be cruel to steal them away. She touched his lips, thin and jagged with her own, and when she moved back into her space, the remnants of his breath escaped his body in a final, content sigh.

As William's sight returned, he found that he was no longer in his room, but in the highest row of round, wooden theatre. The feeling of Marigold's dainty hand in his invited him to turn. There she was, just as radiant joyful as she had been in life, leaning over the rail as she watched an intricate performance on the stage below.

"This is what it looks like, my love." Her smile returned as their eyes met. He, too, was the William that she remembered. Statuesque and fair of face with waves of hair that flowed over his shoulders in every direction like dark rain. "This is what eternity looks like. And down below…"

William glanced at the tapestry that was being manipulated by two players on either side of the stage. Fragments of images danced across it, nearly all of them were of young Mabel. "All the world is a stage," he drew her in and pressed her forehead to his, just like he used to when she was his to hold, "I understand now."

"We can come and go as we please. All you need to do, is touch an image in the mosaic of pictures below- and the tapestry will take you there. You can move around, unseen, like a ghost. And when you are weary and in need of rest, then you and I can steal away to the heavens above the stage and lie amongst the stars for a while." As she spoke, Marigold broke momentarily from William and pointed to a living painting of clouds and celestial bodies above the performing space. "The choice is yours."

"To sit here by your side and watch the world go by," he drew closer, initiating a sequence of tender kisses, "to see our beautiful little girl as she grows into a woman… is all that I wish for now that eternity is our own."

Marigold stroked his hair and eased his eagerness into a single, deep kiss to the mouth. The electricity that began with each caress of her lips, causing his heart to overflow with joy, was the same as it had been in life. As their embrace tightened, William realized that this was because the love that they were given so briefly during their time on earth had been a glimpse of heaven.

And so, they remained in that place for a long while before finding rest in one another's arms beneath a blanket of starlight and clouds. "I will meet you in my dreams," they vowed before their souls passed into repose. And it was so. After all, William and Marigold would always find one another.

Not an hour later, Mabel found her father. Still and silent in his bed. He generated not a single motion as his daughter stirred. She moved closer and placed her hand on his cold face, if only to confirm it to herself. William Tavington was gone. Until Giselle arrived, Mabel remained by his side, with her arm around his chest.

"He fell asleep," the uncommonly strong nine-year-old informed Giselle with dry eyes, "he fell asleep and didn't wake up." Giselle dropped her tote in the doorway with every intention of holding her goddaughter and never letting go. "My first memory was seeing him in pain. I watched him suffer my whole life," Mabel continued without so much as a tear, "this is the most at peace that I have ever seen him."

As gently as she could, Giselle pulled Mabel away from William's quiet form and into the warmth of her arms. "You were the light of his life, Little One. He loved you so much. Don't think for a moment that being your father was a hardship for him in any way."

Slowly, very slowly, Mabel started to feel that she didn't have to be strong for her father anymore. The tighter that Giselle held her, the more their bond intensified. Her warmth overshadowed the cold, lifelessness of William. Her beating heart and gentle breath allowed her to recover from the stillness she'd felt as she longed for the reciprocation of his embrace. Mabel's heart, pure and loving, leapt into Giselle's. It was adoption on the most spiritual level. From that moment on, Giselle was her mother.

"I loved him, too" Mabel admitted in a broken tone, "I loved him so much. More than anything in all the world." As Giselle carried Mabel from the house to await the medics on the porch, the little girl allowed herself to cry for the first time since infancy.

William was laid to rest beside Marigold soon after. On an Indian Summer evening that was reminiscent in climate of the morning that he and Annabelle first met. Everyone that Marigold had introduced him to was there, even the fireflies that lived in the surrounding woods passed through on a whispering breeze to bid their farewells. The sight her goddaughter standing loyally at his grave made Giselle's heart shatter like glass, but she took her to visit him each day. Even after she returned to her old resilience, Mabel never missed an opportunity to sit beside him and read.

When the time was right, Giselle told Mabel all that she knew about William. Not only did Mabel believe every word, but she took the incentive to learn everything about the unlikely hero that she could. Gradually, she returned to her old resilience. The memory of her father was both painful and sweet, but she carried it like a burning torch along with the pride of her surname. She fought in favor of keeping the farmhouse and the land. When she was finally old enough, it became her own. Anyone passing from Waterford to Charleston would see it- a glorious terrain of rolling hills with more wildflowers than there are stars in the sky. What made this piece of land so unique, however was that it was owned by a Tavington and it almost never came to pass, but love had made it so.

Fin.


End file.
